


The Kim Chronicles

by Yoonaya



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:12:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2564501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoonaya/pseuds/Yoonaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kim Kai is releasing his autobiography today. It's all a big spectacle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do Kyungsoo

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever attempt at EXO fanfic. Hope you enjoy it!

 

*

 

Kim Kai is releasing an autobiography today. Fresh from his ghost-writer’s pen to the presses. Magazines want to interview him, journalists are already standing by with their cameramen and he’s scheduled for at least sixteen different broadcasting channels that day. It’s all a big spectacle. His fangirls have already been filmed crying hysterically and screeching how much they love him. That always seems to be a necessity when they’re doing an item on him.

 

It almost makes him chuckle. He would’ve, he thinks, had he been sixteen and someone would have told him about it.

 

Writing down lies and selling them to the public.

 

It’s what he’s been doing his entire career, lying. The only difference is that people have to do some work themselves for a change, read his story instead of him feeding it to them in bite-sized chunks.

 

The man at the front row asks him if he isn’t flustered by giving away so much of his private life and he leans in to the microphone to give the rehearsed answer to the rehearsed question. The man smiles and nods, obediently writing down his answer and then there’s a five minute break announced by his publicist.

 

People leave the room, for a piss or a fag, perhaps even a quick one. He sighs and sinks deeper into his chair. His hands find the book and he opens it, reads the first lines about how his life allegedly began. It’s all romanticised bullshit of course, no surprise there. He turns it over with a disinterested look and stares at the cover. _The Kim Chronicles_ , it reads.

 

For all the coke and booze in his system and the lies fed to his mind, he can still remember how it truly went.

 

*

 

There’s a tradition at Jongin’s school. Every last Friday of the month, each class gets to do a performance on the make-do stage (a couple of tables pushed together) in the gymnasium. Classes are cancelled for the students to rehearse and the boys are giddy, parents are invited to come and watch. The teachers revel in their pupils’ excitement, trying to get them to let out their creativity to the full extent. All of this makes for a terribly exciting happening in the school, keeping everyone’s spirits up.

 

Not this month though.

 

Lee Dongseop knows that as soon as he folds open the white paper and finds the word ‘dance’ scribbled across the page.

 

He might teach ten-year-olds but even they know dancing is stupid. And it’s for girls. Which isn’t practical when teaching in an all-boys school and he damns the headmaster once more for not abolishing the stupid dance performances.

 

‘’Can’t we just do a play?’’ Minyeok asks from where he’s sitting by the window. Several boys nod in agreement.

 

‘’Dancing is stupid,’’ someone else says and several voice pipe up carrying the same sentiment.

 

Dongseop sighs. One of these days he’s going to lose his cool. It’s the same thing every time: ‘dance’ means a month of whining and moaning leading up to a lacklustre performance by an unenthusiastic pupil who’ll be teased until the next victim comes along.

 

He puts his hands on the desk, frowning slightly.

 

‘’Assuming there are no volunteers…’’

 

Twenty-five pairs of eyes avoid his violently,

 

‘’I’m going to have to pick someone myself.’’

 

The whole class is silent as his eyes scan the heads of the boys. He lingers over Heechul’s side of the room, then thinks the better of it. The boy had a knack for crossing a line which meant complaining parents in his office on Monday morning. He’d better not. Instead, his eyes find Do Kyungsoo, hunched over his Korean grammar book trying desperately to appear invincible.

 

Sweet, silent Do Kyungsoo.

 

It might help him, he decides. Get rid of that shyness a bit.

 

‘’Kyungsoo,’’ he announces and a delighted sigh seems to come over the whole class like a wave, ‘’why don’t you find some friends and prepare a dance.’’

 

It’s an announcement, not a question, and it immediately makes the boy look up in complete horror. His big, dark eyes are pleading but Dongseop won’t give in. Not unless the boy opens his mouth and protests, which Lee knows he won’t.

 

Around him people are snickering and patting him on the back apologetically. Dongseop makes the boys calm down and picks up the lesson before things can get out of hand. With a groan they start on irregular verbs, the announcement forgotten for now.

 

Jongin meets his eyes and when Kyungsoo looks back with that look that tells everyone he has an idea, Jongin knows he’s in trouble.

 

*

 

‘’I won’t,’’ Jongin states, ‘’no way. I don’t want to.’’

 

He picks up his pace, making it harder for the other boy to catch up as they’re walking home together. Kyungsoo doesn’t give up though, short legs working overtime and a determined look plastered on his face. His grip is surprisingly strong as he grabs Jongin by his shoulders, staring at him seriously.

 

‘’I had to do it with my friends. You’re my best friend. That means you have to do it!’’ Kyungsoo accuses and Jongin scowls, pulling the hands off of his shoulders. He shoots the other boy a dirty look as he starts to walk again, shoving his hands deeper into his coat.

 

‘’I’ll pay for you when we go to the arcade.’’ Kyungsoo says. It stops Jongin in his tracks, turning around so quickly his backpack nearly falls off. Damn Kyungsoo for knowing his weakness.

 

The offer is too tempting.

 

‘’Every Friday?’’ he asks. Kyungsoo bites his lower lip, clutching the straps of his backpack tighter. Jongin crosses his arms, one unimpressed eyebrow moving up his face.

 

‘’Fine.’’

 

‘’What was that?’’

 

‘’Every Friday. But only for a month.’’

 

He makes sure to shove past Jongin when he continues walking, ignoring the shit-eating grin on the other’s face.

 

*

 

They have no idea where to start so Jongin approaches the only person he knows will be able to help him at all times: his mother. She’s absolutely delighted. Before they know it they’re enrolled in ballet lessons for beginners. He finds himself perched into some sort of weird pants that are too tight in a room full of tutu-girls twice a week. The only thing that feels familiar is Kyungsoo standing next to him with that expression that means he wants to disappear from the face of the earth (wearing equally silly pants).

 

As faith would have it, Kyungsoo is terrible. His feet don’t seem to be attached to his body anymore: they’re not listening to his brain anyhow. He can’t remember the steps and keeps bumping into the girls who give him death glares he wishes he could replicate.

 

After two weeks and a particularly bad lesson he tells Jongin he isn’t coming anymore.

 

‘’And I’m not doing the stupid performance either.’’ He declares and that’s that.

 

Jongin doesn’t tell Kyungsoo how he likes the burn of his muscles, the graceful but powerful movements, the harmony and the music. He’s always been a bit of an awkward child but he fits the role of a dancer as if it had been hand-made for him, dancing with rather than to the music.

 

On the day of the performance they both have their mothers call them in sick.

 

The next week, Jongin turns up at the studio anyway.

 

*

 

They move on to the same middle school, still best friends, and Jongin’s thirteen when he first gets the idea.

 

It’s a Saturday and they’ve just been to see this god-awful melodramatic French film Kyungsoo had dragged him to and he’d demanded he be bought snacks as compensation.

 

Kyungsoo’s big eyes turn into two small moons when he laughs at the sight of Jongin trying to stuff an entire hamburger in his mouth, getting ketchup all over his face and spraying bread all over the table. He nearly chokes on the bacon as he returns the laughter.

 

It’s childish and stupid and boyish but that’s the best thing about being with Kyungsoo. They can afford to be the worst version of themselves with the other around.

 

Kyungsoo’s gone to the toilet (announcing ‘’I need a leak,’’) and Jongin’s just shrugging his coat on when a woman he doesn’t know taps his shoulder. He turns around, surprised, to find a woman around his mother’s age handing him a piece of paper with her head bowed.

 

‘’We’d love to see you around.’’ She says and that’s the only thing she says because she’s gone just like that, and Jongin watches her leave, the paper still in his hand.

 

‘’What did she want?’’ Kyungsoo asks from behind him and he holds out the paper to the other boy.

 

‘’I don’t know,’’ he says, dumbfounded, ‘’she gave me this.’’

 

Kyungsoo’s already bending over his hand and he looks up in amazement, those big eyes filled with excitement. He’s practically bouncing in his place.

 

‘’This is a business card!’’ he says gleefully.

 

Jongin shrugs.

 

‘’So?’’

 

‘’It’s from SM Entertainment. You know, like Boa? I think they want you to audition.’’

 

Jongin blinks. He feels oddly flattered but it doesn’t quite make sense to him. Why would she want him to audition? Had she been following him, perhaps? How could she decide such a thing from seeing him in a McDonalds?

 

‘’You think? It wouldn’t be a joke, right?’’

 

*

 

For all of Kyungsoo’s insistence, his mother tells him he can’t go anyway.

 

‘’You’re too young,’’ she says as she’s drying the dishes, ‘’I won’t have it.’’

 

It doesn’t hold him from thinking about it though. He starts to wonder what it would be like; to stand on stage and dance, perhaps even sing, and to feel thousands of people look up at him in adoration. To hear applause and cheering all because of his performance. He’d done a performance in the local theatre one, one of the children in The Nutcracker, and he’d loved it. Loved the excitement of it, the buzz that the performance had seemed to ignite in his veins.

 

What would it be like to be a star?

 

He goes to ballet more often now. It’s never quite enough time: the movements never seem to get quite as precise as he’d like them to be but his teacher still tells him he’s gotten better. She’s pleased with him, she tells him with a stern face. That doesn’t make it any easier when he can’t quite make that turn or his shoulders droop too much. It’s why he practices more, harder, better. He goes over the moves in his head when he’s bent over his maths homework in class, remembers the routines better than the French-Korean war and dreams about La Sylphide and Roberto Bolle and the Vaganova Academy.

 

It’s his heart and soul but those don’t mean he’s good enough, and the hand his teacher presses to his shoulder when he’s told he didn’t make it into the company only seems to weigh him down.

 

He’s sixteen when he and Kyungsoo reach high school and they won’t be together anymore because Kyungsoo’s leaving.

 

Their bodies are working overtime, having transformed Jongin in something tall and lanky and dark, covered in acne. His limbs feel too long for his dancing and his voice changes into something ugly which reminds him of that annoying boy who used to live down the street. Kyungsoo however seems to grow up gracefully; skin white as snow, blemish-free, face only sharpened by cheekbones settling in their predestined place and his voice blooms into something like silk, all deep and charming.

 

It’s what he catches himself thinking as he and Kyungsoo say goodbye.

 

Not that they really say ‘goodbye’, because that would be weird and they don’t want to, anyway. Instead, they’re sitting in the same shitty McDonalds eating the same shitty hamburgers because that’s what feels the best in the end. Because it’s what they’ve always done.

 

‘’We used to go to the arcade on Friday, remember?’’ Kyungsoo says and Jongin hums around a mouthful of abused cattle. Kyungsoo isn’t eating.

 

‘’Do you remember when that woman from SM came in here?’’ He asks then, those round eyes resting on Jongin’s face and Jongin chuckles, nods.

 

‘’I still think you should,’’ Kyungsoo admits, grabbing a napkin to wipe away the ketchup spilled all over Jongin’s chin. ‘’Audition. I mean.’’

 

Jongin stops half-bite to let Kyungsoo wipe his face.

 

‘’I might.’’ He says and it’s not really an answer at all. It’s just that he’s already dreading the end of this conversation because he knows Kyungsoo’s going to take the train in the opposite direction and he won’t come back for God knows how long. He’s not ready for that yet.

 

‘’I can’t believe your parents are sending you to a boarding school.’’ He blurts out and it makes Kyungsoo’s face fall immediately, napkin falling onto the plastic tray.

 

‘’Yeah,’’ he deadpans, ‘’me neither.’’

 

A pang of guilt shoots through Jongin’s chest and he really, really doesn’t like the way Kyungsoo’s eyes look so sad all of a sudden.

 

‘’Shit man, I’m sorry. I – I didn’t mean to – ‘’

 

‘’It’s okay,’’ Kyungsoo interrupts with that voice of his, and Jongin’s can’t get used to its richness, ‘’I know you don’t mean to be a jerk.’’

 

‘’We’ll keep in touch, yeah?’’ Jongin asks and it’s more of a plea.

 

Please, please, promise me.

 

‘’Sure.’’ Kyungsoo says and smiles. Jongin’s hormones must be fucked up because his heart goes all weird then.

 

He leaves the burger and goes to the arcade to shoot some zombies with Kyungsoo instead.

 

*

 

They do keep in touch. There’s mail and texts and blurry webcam screens. Sometimes Kyungsoo’s allowed home and he tries to make as much time for Jongin as he possibly can. Somewhere between exams and ballet Jongin finds the time to audition at SM (now that he’s deemed old enough by his parents).

 

‘’You didn’t get in?’’ Kyungsoo’s eyebrows nearly fly off his face.

 

‘’No but listen: I auditioned for some other companies as well. One of them wants me to be a trainee.’’

 

In the background Jongin’s Nintendo GameCube is buzzing away to a game they’ve long forgotten, controllers still perched between their legs. Jongin’s a bit disappointed. He had expected Kyungsoo to be excited about this.

 

‘’Aren’t you glad?’’ he asks. Kyungsoo frowns.

 

‘’SM basically scouted you right? So what’s up with them turning you down…’’ he mumbles and Jongin laughs, throwing a playful punch to the older boy’s shoulder.

 

‘’That was years ago! They don’t remember you like that. I bet they scout hundreds of kids each day, or like, each week. I’m not special or anything.’’

 

Kyungsoo says something incoherent, leaning back against the wall. His legs are too short to hang over the edge of Jongin’s bed and it’s an absolutely adorable sight which makes Jongin’s heart all weird again.

 

He’s seventeen now. They’re both older. He can’t pretend not to understand his feelings anymore. He knows the lump in his throat isn’t because of his cold. He understands the electricity he feels when Kyungsoo slings an arm around his shoulders. He knows the meaning of the dreams he gets at night, of full lips and big eyes and hard muscles. Knows he’s a bit different from other boys. It doesn’t make him feel guilty or disconnected though. It’s a part of him: he couldn’t imagine it any other way.

 

‘’Can people come to watch the practice?’’ Kyungsoo asks.

 

‘’Why? You want to be my fan boy?’’ Jongin jokes, a grin on his face. Kyungsoo’s mouth opens and closes, witty comeback not coming soon enough so he settles on a death stare. A blush spreads across his cheeks.

 

He looks so small and lovely like this, perched on Jongin’s bed, and there’s that familiar buzzing excitement in his veins; he feels strong. Before he can stop himself there’s an arm around the other boy’s shoulders and he’s leaning in, pressing their lips together. He’d never done this before and it’s awkward. He closes his eyes because that’s the thing they always do in the movies but there’s a couple of seconds where nothing happens and he’s afraid his heart is going to burst out of his chest and then he’ll die of embarrassment. A moment and then Kyungsoo’s lips start moving against his. They don’t match exactly, childish enthusiasm making it a bit awkward, but Kyungsoo’s gripping his thigh and they’re so close to each other, Jongin thinks it’s all just brilliant.

 

He must have been holding his breath because he’s panting when they pull apart. He’s relieved when he sees Kyungsoo’s the same. Their stares are hard and hot, chests heaving. Then Jongin bursts out laughing, hiding his face in his hands. Beside him, Kyungsoo does the same.

 

‘’Is that alright then?’’ Jongin asks, hand coming up to ruffle the other’s hair. Kyungsoo nods. They sit like that for a while, giggling like teenage girls while Jongin’s chest aches in a good way.

 

Kyungsoo bends over to grab the controller now scattered around the end of the bed and pushes the other one into Jongin’s hands.

 

‘’I bet you won’t beat me at Rainbow Road.’’

 

*

 

It all happens very quickly after that. Jongin is a trainee at K-Show Entertainment: he’s one of exactly a hundred. They start polishing him immediately. Classes start at 6 PM (introduction to acting: a course for complete beginners) which means he has to take the bus at Hongdae station that’s always packed with people, a sweaty and unpleasant fifteen minutes. He makes it on most days, still panting heavily as he gets on to the bus but it does mean he doesn’t get to spend time with his friends anymore, their after-school sessions gone just like that. They don’t seem to mind all that much (or perhaps they just don’t let on): they’re proud of Jongin being a trainee, already asking for his autograph.

 

‘’Gonna sell this on eBay for big bucks when you’re the next thing,’’ Haemin tells him as he slides the paper towards him with a grin on his face.

 

The classes continue until 10 PM, at which point Jongin is once again racing to get to the 10:08 again. English vocab and Pythagoras in the train and if he’s lucky he can crawl into his bed when he returns home. His alarm sounds at six the next morning, tells him to do it all over again.

 

Every now and then he arrives on the platform to see the 10:01 already speeding away. Today is one of those days. Blue Hangul hanging above his head inform him he’ll have to try again at 10:38.

 

He throws himself on one of the benches lining the platform and takes out his phone for a round of Tetris. The thing’s almost empty though and Jongin likes the thought of being able to contact someone should he get himself in trouble. His eyes shift towards the tramp thoroughly searching a bin five feet away. He sighs, hot air turning white in the cool of the night and wriggles further into his coat.

 

Today had not gone very well. The girl he’d been paired with in acting had been as emotive as a Coldplay album. That is to say, she had exactly one expression. The teacher had yelled into his ear so loudly he thought his eardrums were going to give up at any point. He didn’t understand why people at an entertainment company seemed to believe you could shout people into acting better but he supposed the harsh training technique was just part of the company’s policy. At least he was Korean. The Chinese trainees were treated worse than the lowest ranking employees. And the Thai ones? Well…

 

Flipping his phone open, he couldn’t resist cracking a smile. A very happy Jongin and a very annoyed Kyungsoo stared back at him. Kyungsoo did hate having his picture taken (which meant Jongin took all the more photos). He frowned. He’d never noticed how dark his skin looked next to Kyungsoo’s porcelain complexion. They had made a remark about his skin at the company, several times. Covering himself with his hand, he smiled. Much better.

 

He hesitated for about ten seconds before giving in and dialling the number, a familiar ringtone starting to play.

 

‘’Hello?’’ Kyungsoo’s voice sounded groggy with sleep and immediately Jongin felt guilty.

 

‘’Shit – did I wake you? Only it’s just ten so I thought you’d be up – ‘’

 

‘’Jongin, it’s fine. I was feeling a bit ill so I went to bed early.’’

 

‘’Oh.’’

 

Kyungsoo hadn’t mentioned that. His texts had been coming less often these days. Jongin barely ever had time to reply and when he did, they were much shorter than Kyungsoo’s, basically only acknowledging that he’d read them. It wasn’t that he didn’t try, there simply wasn’t any time. Jongin had told him he was sorry about that and Kyungsoo had replied that it was fine in such a way that had made apparent to Jongin that it was anything but. A painful pang went through his chest at the memory.

 

He could hear the ruffle of sheets and imagined Kyungsoo sitting up in bed, phone pressed to his cheek.

 

‘’How was today?’’

 

‘’Fine… I mean, it was hard but I don’t feel like talking about it.’’

 

A pause. Kyungsoo was waiting for him to speak.

 

‘’I’m so tired.’’

 

‘’The whole country’s tired.’’ Kyungsoo reminded him and Jongin snorted.

 

‘’Always such comforting words.’’

 

‘’I know. I’m like Dr Phil.’’

 

‘’Yeah whatever, dumbass.’’

 

Kyungsoo’s voice was clearer now and he could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke. Could imagine the curve of those pretty lips.

 

‘’So did you miss me?’’

 

Jongin shook his head, grinning. He almost dropped his phone in surprise as the mechanic voice above his head announced his train to be arriving at his platform in a minute.

 

‘’I have to go now,’’ he told Kyungsoo, ‘’my train’s here.’’

 

‘’Will you call me back or should I go to sleep?’’

 

‘’I’d call but my battery’s dying. Sorry. I feel like such a dickhead waking you for a ten-second call I just – get well soon, okay?’’

 

Kyungsoo’s goodnight is muffled out by the loud clang of metal upon metal.

 

The line is cut before he can hear Jongin mumble ‘I missed you’.

 

*

 

It’s hard having a relationship with someone who’s never there. Looking back, Jongin concludes that had definitely been the problem. He believes that’s why Kyungsoo broke up with him that Sunday evening, voice soft and eyes avoiding his. He’d left Jongin to sit in the café alone, bell sounding as the door had shut behind his quietly retreating figure. Jongin had followed him until he was not more than a dot of blue in the white streets. It had hurt because it wasn’t like they’d grown apart. They hadn’t fought and they hadn’t cheated.

 

It wasn’t like Jongin loved Kyungsoo any less than before.

 

He’d heard that first heartbreak hurt the most but if it was anything like what he was feeling Jongin wondered why anyone bothered to put themselves through all of this. It hurt more than all the insults and physical blows ever thrown at him combined.

 

Kyungsoo means childhood – wild laughter and video games and shy touches. An ache in Jongin’s stomach which settles under his skin.

 

He doesn’t stop to remember; but he never quite forgets.

 


	2. Oh Sehun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first sort of smutty-ish thing I've ever written I'm so ashamed lol. Please accept my apologies in advance!!

 

*

 

Trainees come and trainees go because it’s easy to give up when you haven’t yet got too much to lose, and once Jongin reaches the tender age of nineteen they’re down to twenty. It seems like it would make things easier but it doesn’t, only the most perseverant ones being left meaning Jongin has all the more competition. They don’t call each other that (competition) but Jongin knows – nobody here truly likes each other. It’s all fun and games when they’re eating tteokbeokgi together at night, or when they go over to the dorms to watch the game but Jongin knows that once he turns his back the others are holding their knives ready. It isn’t personal: Jongin feels the same. They’re all nice kids and that’s great but he has to be the one to debut. He wants to be the one to make it and if he’s going to be the one to make it, they won’t. That’s why he makes it a policy not to befriend anyone, truly, and he feels bad for the ones that do.

 

It does make things lonely, having no-one to talk to. Having no time for his old friends and having no friends the other half of the day hardly makes for conversation. He thinks of Kyungsoo sometimes when he’s lying in his bed at night and remembers the feeling of having someone next to him. He remembers midnight phone calls, sometimes teary, sometimes happy. He remembers the sound of Kyungsoo’s laughter and the way he’d blush. He might cry sometimes, but he doesn’t tell.

 

Other times he doesn’t think of Kyungsoo at all. Some times, the person he was with Kyungsoo seems far away, like a five-year-old: unsure and awkward about everything. He doesn’t feel like that person anymore. He’s nineteen now, graduating high school and starting a new life. He feels like he’s standing on the edge and he’s more than ready to take the leap, has been ready for some time. Every acting class makes him more impatient, every vocal lesson more excited.

 

Time passes so quickly Jongin almost wishes he could pause and take a step back, take it all in for a moment, but then he’s debuting and there isn’t any time.

 

His parents and older sisters take him out for dinner when he first hears the news, showering him with hugs and kisses he wipes off of his cheek with a scowl. The slight curve of his mouth betrays the happiness he’s feeling.

 

‘’It’s only a contract, I’m not debuting _yet_.’’ He explains as his mother clutches him to his chest and his younger sister smears cake all over his newly-cut hair. Opposite of him, his father only smiles. It’s a smile Jongin doesn’t see often on his father’s face and it makes his heart swell with pride.

 

‘’We’re all really proud of you, Jongin. I knew you were talented right from the start.’’ His older sister tells him, her daughter bouncing on her knee, trying desperately to grab the end of one of her curls.

 

‘’We did! Remember when we went to watch him in that ballet? He used to be so cute!’’ his younger sister coos and Jongin resists to urge to tease her back, sticks out his tongue instead.

 

‘’What are you going to do now, Jongin?’’ His brother in law asks over a glass of beer.

 

Jongin had read the contract himself, of course, but the language had been odd and old-fashioned and he had not understood everything. He’d asked permission for his parents to read and the company had told him: naturally, anything he wished for. After a day long read through, the contract had been deemed acceptable by his father and Jongin trusted in that.

 

‘’I’m going to be training with the person I’m debuting with for a certain period of time. Um, that hasn’t been decided yet. We’ll record a song together and then we’ll have a choreographer teach us a dance and all that… you get what I mean.’’

 

‘’That’s great. You’re a cool guy.’’ Jongin blushes at the compliment and his sisters roll their eyes at their fist bump.

 

‘’Who will you be debuting with? Is it one of the kids that have been over?’’ His father’s voice pipes up.

 

‘’Yeah Jongin, who _will_ you be debuting with?’’

 

*

 

Oh Sehun was a lanky kid who always looked like someone had stolen his last cookie and spoke with a tone that had as much enthusiasm as a class of 16-year-olds starting a course on advanced mathematics. He was skinnier than Jongin, something he didn’t think possible, and taller too which Jongin thought was just unfair.

 

He didn’t quite know how he felt about them being a team.

 

It wasn’t that he had any resentment for the boy, no, only he didn’t really know anything about him at all. Why, nobody did. In the company, Oh Sehun had been the one shrouded in mystery. He was the one that never went out when the other boys did, always going off somewhere on his own. He lived in the dorms but only like a ghost, they said, never quite being there. Some said he must have some secret business to be going away in the midst of the night like that.

 

‘’I bet he’s a drug pusher. He looks like one.’’ Jongdae had said at one of their bro-sessions back at the dorm, the beer in his hand probably being one too many already.

 

‘’Don’t be ridiculous. A kid that skinny a drug pusher? An addict more likely.’’ Someone else had replied and it was about then Jongin had lost track of the amount of drinks he’d had and the bomb of crazy conspiracy theories about Sehun’s whereabouts went off.

 

He didn’t really find the guy that interesting. Figured he had other friends and preferred to spend time with them. He didn’t think about Oh Sehun a lot, quietly accepting the fact that they were going to have to be partners.

 

He did know the kid was talented: Jongin would give him that. It was a joy to be able to dance with someone who truly knew what he was doing and it was only natural that Jongin should have warmed up to him in the practice room.

 

*

 

‘’I think that move should be a bit sharper.’’ Jongin nearly let out a yelp at the sudden comment. They hadn’t spoken for nearly an hour, concentrating instead on correcting the movements of the dance by doing the same thing over and over and over and then some more. Jongin had fallen into that trance he always fell in when he danced and hadn’t counted on the other boy actually opening his mouth. He mostly didn’t, aside from a polite ‘hello’ at the beginning of the training.

 

‘’What?’’ He panted, staring at the blurry figure next to him in the mirror. Sehun was staring at him, damp gray shirt clinging to his skin, no expression on his face.

 

He too had gotten a haircut by the company.

 

The length had been fine, but it had taken all of Jongin’s willpower not to burst out laughing the first time he saw his partner walk into the practice room and take off his beanie to reveal a rainbow perched on the top of his head. He had caught Sehun’s eyes then and had noticed a blush spreading across his cheeks, and Jongin had been glad to discover the other was indeed able of conveying normal human emotions.

 

Sehun moved his arms and legs swiftly, showing Jongin which move he had been talking about.

 

‘’When you do this,’’ he pushed his arms out, ‘’it’s not sharp enough. It falls together with the beat so it should be sharp.’’ He offered and Jongin frowned.

 

They’d been going for more than three hours now and Jongin was tired. He was cranky and his stomach was calling out for food (unfortunately, audibly). His movements were becoming a little lax, all right, but so were Sehun’s. He could have called him out several times but he didn’t; it was late and he didn’t feel the need to lecture his partner. He thought about reminding Sehun who was the older one here.

 

Sehun obviously noticed his discontent because he quickly added:

 

‘’I mean, I don’t mean to tell you what to do but – to put on a good performance, you know.’’

 

‘’No, it’s fine.’’ Jongin waved his hand and walked over to the stereo to start the song once more. He crouched down and put his hand on the button when a very hungry stomach announced its presence to both of them. Eyebrow raised, he turned around to see a sheepishly grinning Sehun now holding his belly.

 

‘’I’m fucking hungry.’’ Sehun admitted and Jongin couldn’t help laughing. A few seconds and the other boy joined him, albeit a bit coldly. Jongin let his body unfurl on the wooden floor next to the stereo. Propping his head on his hand he looked at the other boy.

 

‘’Should we order some food?’’ he suggested and Sehun nodded and took out his mobile phone. He flopped down next to Jongin, fingers quickly moving over the keys before realizing he wasn’t alone.

 

‘’I was going to order chicken, is that okay? Or do you want something else?’’ he asked, head tilted and mouth hanging slightly open. He looked a bit dim-witted like this, even with his handsome features. Jongin thought he preferred it to the thin-lipped cold guy he had considered Sehun to be.

 

‘’Chicken is fine.’’ Jongin replied, fanning himself with his shirt, the sweat now cooling down and sticking uncomfortably to his skin.  

 

Sehun ordered, two whole chickens (who knew the guy could eat?) then put his phone down again. They shifted in their seats, looking at the ceiling, looking at the stereo; anything but each other. Jongin could feel the tension slowly creeping up on them again, raking his brain for something to say before Sehun beat him to the punch.

 

‘’It’s like a sauna in here.’’ Sehun remarked dryly, pointing at the walls and Jongin giggled, nodding.

 

Their practice had obviously paid off for the mirrors looked like scenes from a heavily-fogged horror movie. Only now did he notice how thick the air had become, filled with their energy and exhaustion.

 

Jongin yawned, stretching himself out, then leaned against the wall again, shifting closer to Sehun in the process. He glanced at the guy sitting beside him, mouth once again open in that peculiar fashion, a thing of fatigue, probably, and caught sight of the shirt slipping off of his shoulder, revealing a razor-sharp collarbone underneath. He noticed a slim waist hidden by soft fabric and long, thin fingers wrapping themselves around dainty thighs. He swallowed.

 

Well, shit.

 

 

*

 

‘’Do you like Mario Kart?’’ Jongin had asked after vocal training one day. He’d then proceeded to kick Sehun’s ass at Rainbow Road five times in a row, laughing hysterically every time and finding himself intrigued by Sehun’s sly smile.

 

*

 

Jongin was pretty damn sure Sehun was gay.

 

Debut was getting closer and closer now, only two months left, and they were being groomed for the Big Day, like dogs before a contest. The nice man with the white coat hiding in the basement of the company had helped them get rid of any genetic blemishes, the noonas at the salon gelling up their hair every morning and powdering Jongin’s face with so much BB Cream it made his acne start taunting him again. It was worth it though: as Jongin glanced at himself in the mirror, now staring at Kai, as the company had decided, he knew he looked good.

 

He looked more than good, if one was to believe the girls that now started visiting the company with gifts and letters in their hands and dreams in their hearts, and he was sure Sehun knew too, with the way Jongin caught him staring so often, a blush spreading across the younger one’s cheeks.

 

Sehun might have been a shy kid but his disinterest in girls was something else. Even Jongin was able to pretend, bullshitting about this actress he really wanted to nail during one of the house’s late night-talks, but Sehun never spoke about girls. His manager would nudge his side and point at some pretty idol’s breasts and Sehun would giggle nervously, eyes shifting from side to side. He didn’t look at girls, either, and Jongin knew he did look at men. It was easy to notice because he was the same; he only wished Sehun would be a little less obvious about it, for his own sake.

 

He’d once caught the other boy in a rather private affair, coming back from the shower to find Sehun jerking off furiously to someone that certainly wasn’t a girl, shutting the door as quickly as he could, face burning up and leaving the dorm only to come back hours later, finding himself unable to meet Sehun’s gaze.

 

Jongin had never lived with other men his age before, only having two older sisters. He wasn’t sure what to make of it – Sehun, his manager, Sehun’s manager, they were all men. Men knew about these sorts of things. They all had needs. When sharing a house, however, it would really have been preferable not to have those needs. Jongin longed desperately for the privacy of his own bed, Doraemon covers and all, on the mornings he’d wake up with a hard-on, jerking himself off as quietly as possible with Sehun on the other end of the room trying to appear to be asleep.

 

They hadn’t been told a lot about relationships, the company making it clear they’d rather they not have any relationship at all.

 

‘’But if it does happen,’’ the CEO had barked at the two boys in front of him, sitting upright in too big chairs, ‘’be discreet.’’

 

Jongin wasn’t sure what the rule was on wanting to shag your teammate.

 

He was pretty sure Sehun was up for it, though, and God, he really wanted to.

 

So he set out to test the other.

 

Letting his arm slip a little lower, letting his hand graze against bare skin ‘accidentally’, pressing his lips into the other’s shoulder as breathy laughter escaped, moving his hips just-so as he danced, he teased and pushed and pulled, watching that poker face crumble a little more each time. It gave him a peculiar sort of power and he found himself loving every second of it.

 

But, he thought, he loved Sehun on his knees even more. Pretty lips wrapped around his cock, breathy moans caught in the other’s throat, and then Sehun’s looking up at him with dark eyes filled with lust and it has him clutching the wall to keep his legs from giving in. It’s all hot and intense, so much more than he’d ever imagined, ever did with Kyungsoo, and Jongin’s never going to watch porn again because it will never compare to the imagine he has of Sehun grinning as he presses a kiss to the tip of Jongin’s cock. It’s all too much and then he’s coming, too early – all over Sehun’s face.

 

‘’Oh my God,’’ he breathes, voice still shaking from the thrill of it all, ‘’I am so fucking sorry, shit – ‘’ he can’t grab enough tissues, furiously wiping away the streaks of white now splattered on Sehun’s face. The other boy just laughs as Jongin slides down the wall, legs finally giving up on him.

 

‘’Oh my God,’’ he repeats, can’t stress the sentiment enough, his chest still heaving. Sehun leans in, pushes his tongue into his mouth, all hot and close and his head spins from being able to get to see Sehun like this.

 

‘’That was really fucking hot.’’ He says and Sehun lets out a genuine laugh at that, head thrown back as Jongin pets his ridiculous hair in adoration. A slight grin pulling at the corners of his mouth, Sehun takes Jongin’s hand and presses it to the tent beneath his sweatpants.

 

‘’As flattered as I am,’’ he breathes, eyes still dark and hooded, ‘’I really need you to get me off.’’

 

Jongin does.

 

*

 

Sehun is not like Kyungsoo at all. He doesn’t have that deep voice Kyungsoo has, Jongin can’t lean down to wrap his arms around petite shoulders, doesn’t have two big eyes staring up at him, doesn’t have full lips he can press his own against. Sehun’s a lot more confident than Kyungsoo, all long, sharp limbs and small eyes that are always calculating, a grave voice and a ridiculous laugh that Jongin never gets tired of hearing.

 

He falls in love with him anyway.

 

*

 

 

Some things always go by unnoticed, as if there’s not chance you could ever truly catch them, like when Jongin wakes up in the morning and the leaves have changed brown overnight, or the snow has piled up just like that. Debut is like that, too, because it had not been happening fast enough and all of a sudden it’s happening too fast, only a couple hours left before they have to stand on stage and perform and Jongin’s really frightened.

 

He’s excited, too, but he mostly feels afraid.

 

They’re going to the salon first, something he’s already used to, and then they’re going to the broadcasting station where, he’s been told, he has to greet all the senior artistes with a bow and a smile. There’ll be practice and then they’re going on air, no chance of going back. He can’t think about anything but the choreography and their lyrics and the way they’d told him to smile.

 

‘’Not like that,’’ the man had slapped his cheek, a little too harshly, making tears spring into his eyes, ‘’you look like an imbecile. Tone it down a little. That’s it, that’s great.’’

 

He’s pretty sure Sehun should be able to hear his heart pounding in his chest, that’s what it feels like, and he’s not surprised to hear the other boy ask him if he’s scared when they’re lying awake at 3 AM, staring at the ceiling.

 

The sheets rustle as he turns around to face Sehun, finding the other boy’s eyes in the darkness.

 

‘’I just… I’m afraid I’m gonna fuck up.’’ He admits. As his eyes adjust to the darkness he can see Sehun clearer. Any other person might have mistaken Sehun’s expression as blank but Jongin knows the fear in his eyes. He’d seen it often; remembers when they’d gotten scolded by the dance teacher when they’d been too slow and too sloppy and were made to dance until Jongin’s joints ached so much he thought he was going to faint.

 

‘’You’re not going to fuck up,’’ Sehun says seriously and Jongin can tell it’s sincere. He smiles weakly.

 

‘’You don’t know that.’’

 

‘’I don’t. But there’s a lot I don’t know. Should I say, it’s highly unlikely you’ll fuck up, then?’’

 

It gets a smile on Jongin’s face and Sehun’s expression naturally follows.

 

‘’You won’t fuck up either, Sehun.’’ Jongin says because he can almost hear the other boy thinking it. Sehun just blinks.

 

A sigh and then Jongin lifts up his blanket, eyebrow raised in an invitation. Sehun promptly shoves his covers off and scrambles over to Jongin’s bed to wrap himself around the other boy, awkwardly kneeing Jongin’s stomach in the process.

 

Jongin hears the intake of Sehun’s breath and feels his chest move against his back. His hand trails down Sehun’s arm to find his hand where he intertwines their fingers, smiling when Sehun hums appreciatively and snuggles further into his neck. The warmth of Sehun’s body is comforting and as Jongin shuts his eyes again, sleep quickly finds him.

 

*

 

Their first single is, quite simply, a total flop.

 

It’s not a complete failure though, because they do manage to get some fans, high school girls and noonas his mother’s age standing at the front of their performances shouting their names at the top of their voice, but it’s not nearly enough. They get stuck at #43, which isn’t that bad for a newbie from their company, but it’s not what they’d hoped for. Every minute they’re not working the company’s losing money so their schedule gets as packed as it possibly can, their managers accepting every offer they can get their hands on: midnight cable TV shows, university performances, shoots for magazines Jongin has never heard of (and he doesn’t think anyone else has, either), giving out business cards at every possibility.

 

They leave the dorm before the break of dawn, only coming back in the midst of the night and Jongin thinks he might forget what daylight looks like.

 

They work hard in Seoul and Busan and Incheon, Jongin seeing more of the country than he ever has before yet not really seeing anything at all, always locked up in studios and small rooms in tall buildings and indoor stages.

 

His parents are too kind, his mother trying to watch him on everything she can, staying up late if she has to. He looks at his phone as he scrambles into the van at 2:17 in the evening and feels a pang of guilt when he sees four missed calls, but he’s too exhausted to move and he falls asleep clutching the thing to his chest.

 

Jongin’s not a bad loser, nor is he one to become bitter by these things, but he does think it’s unfair.

 

They’re watching Inkigayo together, a group of five Jongin vaguely remembers hearing about performing a R&B pop song, smiling and winking at the camera as they shakily sing their lines and Jongin frowns, lets his head fall onto Sehun’s shoulder.

 

‘’What do they have that we don’t?’’ Jongin wonders out loud.

 

Sehun shrugs.

 

*

 

Activities end as their contract does, six months later. They’re taken to the company for a business meeting which means the staff talks and Jongin listens most of the time, accepting whatever they’ve got thought out for him.

 

Not this time though, because it’s time to talk about his contract and he’s going to have to be the one to sign. He’s already been told by several other artistes in the company it’s just a formality, something to do with practicality of the law and he doesn’t have to be afraid: they’re going to sign him, until he’s done promotion their next song and then they’ll do the same thing again and again.

 

They’re taken in one by one and Jongin’s the one that gets to go first, entering the office with a smile on his face and his back in a polite curve. The CEO meets him with a bright smile, whitened teeth baring as he shakes Jongin’s hand roughly and motions for the boy to sit down in the chair opposite the chestnut desk forming the centre of the room.

 

‘’So, there we are,’’ his voice booms through the room, ‘’Kim Jongin. Or should I say Kim Kai?’’ his laughter is loud and it startles Jongin, giving a shy chuckle in return.

 

There’s a minute of clicking and typing and Jongin almost starts to believe the man forgot about him being there but then there’s a printer coming alive in the corner of the room and papers pushed in front of his face. The man perches a pair of glasses on his wide face and uses his hundred dollar pen to point out things in the contract to Jongin at such a speed he can’t really keep up, but the man doesn’t give him time to complain.

 

‘’It’s mostly the same as your old contract, of course. Legally nothing’s changed. You can still have your lawyer look over it if that’s what you wish, do you wish to do so? Or do you want your parents to look at it?’’ The man winks at him, teasing, and Jongin can feel himself flush.

 

He tells him that won’t be necessary and signs the contract obediently, head bowed and he returns the man’s smile when he pushes the papers back across the desk.

 

‘’So we start preparing on Monday, is that right?’’ he asks and the man confirms: yes, vocal lessons at 8 AM, you’d better be on time. The man tells him he should get Sehun now because he doesn’t have much time and he’d better ask his manager if anything else needs clearing up.

 

‘’You must feel great, getting a practice room to yourself.’’ He says as Jongin’s pushing his chair backwards, shaking the man’s hand.

 

‘’Excuse me?’’ he asks, puzzled. Sehun and he didn’t have a practice room to themselves.

 

‘’Why don’t you know! Solo artists always get a practice room to themselves at our company. Can’t have those girl groups jittering all over the place when our biggest stars are trying to focus.’’

 

Jongin blinks and his blood runs cold. He doesn’t realize he’s still clutching the other man’s hand until the man pinches his hand, chuckles when Jongin finally lets go.

 

‘’What? Didn’t anyone tell you? We’re not renewing Sehun’s contract. You’re going to be a big star, Jongin!’’ He says cheerfully, an arm around Jongin’s shoulder. He opens the door and Jongin’s shoved out by a hand on his back as Sehun steps into the room, a grin on his face.

 

*

 

He doesn’t meet the sadness in Sehun’s eyes afterwards, can’t bring himself to look at his face during the car ride home and pretends not to hear the violent sobs coming from behind the bedroom walls.

 

He leaves early next morning, the company not allowing them their goodbye, and the silence that fills his new room is like a knife to his heart.

 

*

 

Sehun means cheesy jokes and sweaty dance practices and long, lazy kisses. Sehun is where he begins but doesn’t get to end – a painful memory he doesn’t want to forget.


	3. Park Chanyeol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people may proofread in the middle of the night. I'm not one of them.

 

*

 

Being a solo artist is hard. Harder than being with Sehun and Jongin’s not sure whether it’s because he misses the other boy so much or if it’s because the burden on his shoulder is that much bigger. He doesn’t get a lot of time to think about it between rehearsals and practice and photo shoots. By the time he gets to release his first single (second single, Jongin’s mind screams) he’s more or less adjusted to being alone. He has to. He knows to greet the staff, knows how to be the centre of the performance, and he listens as he’s told what his imagine will be like.

 

To an outsider, it might seem as if being a solo artist is a very self-reliant thing. In reality, it’s mostly a passive affair. He has a team of staff deciding how he’s going to look, what he’s going to sound like, and how his personality is going to be. They give him orders and he follows them. It’s what works best for him because truthfully, he has no idea what he’s doing. It’s not that different from what it was like with Sehun but that doesn’t mean it’s not all alienating to him still: the flashing cameras, the people waiting for him in front of the dorm, the girls trying desperately to catch a shred of his clothes as he gets into the black van for the tenth time that day, clawing at his body.

 

He relies on the staff even when he’s not sure if he can, because he hasn’t got anyone else to ask. His manager takes him apart one day, before Inkigayo, and presses something in his hand.

 

‘’An aspirin?’’ he asks. It doesn’t look like one. Small and green, inscribed with something so tiny Jongin can’t read it. His manager doesn’t look at him as he shakes his head, phone buzzing in his hand and Jongin knows by the look on his face he has to take it.

 

‘’It’ll make it easier. Keep your energy up.’’ He tells him and so Jongin swallows the pill easily, does as he’s told.

 

He’s twenty years old and he’s working day and night, losing more sleep than before, but the pills help keep him on his feet. His single does well enough and it keeps him busy, for which he’s happy. Every couple of weeks there’s a hole in his schedule and it should make him feel relieved but instead it makes him despair.

 

It’s never at a reasonable time, never when he might have called his mother, it’s always just him sitting alone in a hotel room in the dead of the night, wanting to catch up on the few hours of sleep he can get but finding himself unable to. Instead he sits cross-legged on the bed and stares at the lights of the city hiding outside. His mind is in a daze. He thinks he might be in Incheon, but he can’t really remember. The hotel room gives him no indication about where he is. They’re always the same: the same white covers, an old-fashioned TV perched on a wooden desk and the same old green curtains lining the big window on his left. He feels hyper aware of the furniture in the room, can almost feel the lines and edges closing in on him, as if they’re all people whose presence he can feel, and the lights outside seem like peeping onlookers rather than speeding cars.

 

He rolls onto his side, eyes tightly shut, but he can’t shake the feeling of someone watching him. His head pounds with a heavy headache he’s not sure was brought on by the lack of sleep or his manager’s mysterious pills.

 

He doesn’t want to get up. His skin is irritated from all the make-up, his eyes still bloodshot from when the make-up noona had roughly brought the pencil down onto his waterline, black kohl spilling in his eyes. She’d cursed then, tugging his hair to keep his head still and Jongin had felt guilty.

 

His muscles ache and he thinks about getting in the bath, letting the water slide comfortably along his body but he feels unable to move, completely numb. There’s a hollow feeling in his chest and there are doubts gnawing at his mind he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

 

He’s tired. He doesn’t want to do this. Just not today.

 

He wishes he could take the taxi home and crawl up on the couch with his father on one side, his mother on the other, the TV on and the heating turned up. He wishes he could have Kyungsoo’s hand on his chest and his head on his pillow, the noise of a racing game buzzing in the background. He imagines Sehun lying next to him and thinks of the way his eyes would crinkle with laughter.

 

*

 

It’s hard to keep up with such a large group of staff but Jongin still tries. He sees them often, more often than his own family, and eventually some faces remain in his mind.

 

There’s his manager, of course. A good guy of twenty-eight years of age, a pretty wife and two adorable kids waiting for him when he gets home every evening. They’re not the closest of friends and Jongin doubts they ever will but Kwangseok’s kind and does his job well. Jongin doesn’t really need to ask for more than that.

 

He easily remembers Hyunah, the girl that does his make-up on most days, with a gorgeous face and a body to match. She’s always cheerful and makes light conversation with Jongin while applying BB cream on his face, joking along the way, making sure never to get into personal matters. He appreciates that. It’s almost like having a third sister, and he finds himself comforted by having her smiling face reflected in the mirror, gossiping away. He’s thought of asking her out, once, but figured that would be unfair to both of them. Charming as she might be, he couldn’t betray himself like that.

 

There’s a cameraman at Inkigayo that likes Jongin because Jongin’s always giving him his leftover snacks. He’d done it once because he thought the man was part of his own staff but Jongin figured it was alright either way. After that, he’d continuously kept doing it until eventually the food order grew. Jongin would wink as he handed Donggeun the plastic box, still warm underneath his hands, and the other would grin.

 

‘’I’ll make sure you get a lot of screen time, yeah?’’

 

If he’s unlucky, he’ll be greeted by the face of Sangchul, short and ugly and bitter, who hates Jongin’s guts for no other reason than that he’s an idol and loves to pull his hair a little too much, accidently lets the heating iron brush across his skin a little too often.

 

If he’s lucky, he’ll be greeted by white teeth and floppy ears and wild eyes. Chanyeol is one of Jongin’s favourite members of staff, and he’s pretty sure he’s not the only one that feels that way about the long-legged man. There hasn’t been a day where Chanyeol hasn’t made everyone laugh with an impression or a joke or just a witty comment, Jongin included. He’s the sunshine of their team. One of his running jokes is being Jongin’s fan, one that never fails to unleash laughter in the waiting room as Chanyeol presses his phone into Jongin’s personal space, screeching and giggling Kai oppa! and Jongin plays his part easily, presses his face close to Chanyeol’s as they take a picture. He washes Jongin’s hair softly and carefully, always asks the younger man what he’d like him to do today. Jongin might ponder a little longer than necessary on the question, enjoying the way Chanyeol’s large hand would slide through freshly washed hair before giving an answer.

 

He thinks about asking Chanyeol out for drinks sometime, maybe get Hyunah’s number if he’s feeling particularly brave, or asking his manager precisely how he got into the industry but he never does. He’s shy and it’s hard breaking the wall between friendship and co-workers, so he keeps to himself, never pushing in.

 

*

 

In the end he doesn’t have to because Chanyeol comes to him. They’re nearing the end of the jacket cover photo shoot for his repackage, everyone’s eyes heavy and their moods getting groggier by the second, but Chanyeol’s eyes are still bright and his shoulders are still high as he plops down in the plastic chair next to Jongin.

 

‘’What’s up?’’ the other asks and Jongin lifts his head slowly from where it’d been resting on his hands, giving him a tired smile.

 

‘’Not much. I think we’ll be done soon. Another half-hour, I’m guessing.’’ He stretches his arms, body unfolding like a cat and he’s a little disappointed when he realises Chanyeol has come here to fix his hair. It’s late and Jongin’s having one of those days where he finds himself with too many words in his head, talking endlessly as if to make up for his quietness the rest of the time, and he blurts out the question as it pops into his head.

 

‘’Did you always want to be a hair stylist?’’

 

The hand working on his hair pauses, Chanyeol obviously being surprised by the sudden question before it continues its path. A quick glance upwards tells Jongin he’s smiling though.

 

‘’Where did that come from?’’ Chanyeol chuckles, one hand shielding Jongin’s face as he sprays some more hairspray on a particularly rebellious lock of hair. ‘’To answer your question: no, I didn’t. When I was younger, I was scouted to become a professional basketball player. Almost got there too. Then this happened,’’ his hand leaves Jongin’s hair a moment to tap on his left knee, ‘’completely ruined by a bad fall and a messy operation. Never stepped on the field again.’’

 

‘’I’m sorry.’’ Jongin says earnestly, wishing he’d never asked, but Chanyeol’s still smiling as if it doesn’t matter, laying the final fixes on his hair.

 

‘’’s okay. It was years ago, I got over it. And I like this job.’’

 

‘’I can see you being a basketball player.’’

 

Chanyeol grins at that as he steps back to admire his finished work.

 

‘’Why? Because I’m tall?’’ he teases, playfully pushing Jongin’s shoulder and Jongin pushes back.

 

‘’I just do.’’ He says and he feel a bit like a child in front of Chanyeol who seems so tall and so mature in his jeans and shirt, while Jongin’s sitting there like a doll, make-up on his face and a ridiculous ripped t-shirt clinging to his barely-covered chest.

 

Chanyeol sits down again, legs splayed out over the floor from the way he’s nearly lying down in the chair. There’s a loud thud somewhere and both of their heads shoot up immediately to where the sound’s coming from, wondering what happened. The lightning staff halts before someone yells out ‘’no damage!’’ and they continue, heavy lamps being dragged everywhere. It’s just one more take, Jongin tells himself. One more session of standing around awkwardly, not quite knowing where to put his hands and how to tilt his head.

 

‘’Do you like basketball?’’ a deep voice cuts his thoughts short. He looks at Chanyeol peering at him from over his mobile phone, a kind smile on his face. He nods.

 

‘’Sure I do.’’

 

There’s a lot of shouting then and Jongin knows he has to get in front of the camera before they have to ask for someone to get him. He stands up quickly but is stopped by Chanyeol’s hand around his wrist.

 

‘’Hey!’’ he says, grinning as he pushes the mobile phone back into his pocket, ‘’you wanna watch a game sometime?’’

 

*

 

It’s not like Jongin actually has time to go see a game at any time he wishes so they meet up in Chanyeol’s Seoul apartment to watch a pre-recorded one instead.

 

‘’Ha Seungjin is legendary in this one,’’ Chanyeol tells him as he settles down on Chanyeol’s tiny couch facing the massive LED-TV. The microwave beep has Chanyeol rushing into the kitchen, making time for Jongin to look around the apartment.

 

It’s small and messy and unorganized but Jongin can tell Chanyeol has cleaned up before he came; there are stacks of clothing and DVDs everywhere, obviously arranged from where they had previously been lying about the place. He has an image of Chanyeol with cleaning gloves and a mop, which is really just ridiculous, and he grins despite himself.

 

It’s exactly the way he’d imagined a regular bachelor’s apartment to be like. The messiness of it all reminds him of his old room and he thinks about how he might have easily been in Chanyeol’s place. Just an ordinary guy living an ordinary life.

 

‘’You like films?’’ Chanyeol says, suddenly very close and Jongin jumps a bit, which makes the other man chuckle. There’s a big bowl of popcorn in his hands, still steaming, and Jongin grabs a handful, not caring about his manager’s ‘no eating after six’ rule.

 

‘’We can watch a film too, afterwards, if you want.’’

 

‘’I have a schedule in two hours.’’ Jongin says. It’s a little too quickly, like he doesn’t want to accept the offer, and he can see Chanyeol’s face fall.

 

‘’Right. I wasn’t thinking.’’

 

‘’No, I mean – I really want to watch the game. So we should. Watch the game. I hate it when you don’t get to see the end.’’ He says and Chanyeol puts the smile back on his face so quickly Jongin would almost forget it wasn’t there a moment before, pushing a beer into Jongin’s hands and opening his own with a clear click of the tin. He talks throughout the whole game, explaining a couple of rules which are vague to Jongin, pointing out players he thinks are ‘’fucking hero’s’’ and those who aren’t. He’s a little too tall to be like a puppy but he certainly has the enthusiasm and Jongin’s spirits are lifted by his presence, doesn’t complain when Chanyeol pushes the fourth beer already in his hands, lets him.

 

He’s sure Chanyeol doesn’t mean anything when he ruffles Jongin’s hair or when he grips the other boy’s thigh in anticipation of an exceptionally thrilling 3-pointer, hands brushing against his lips as Chanyeol stuffs too much popcorn into his mouth (laughing hysterically), but Jongin feels his hearth swell in his chest anyway.

 

Afterwards, Chanyeol talks of girls and cars and hip hop and Jongin knows he’s in trouble.

 

*

 

Jongin had been warned for company drinks by an especially coked-up colleague of his. He hadn’t been sure why Luhan had decided to go on a late-night rant about it but he appreciated it, never having gone to one before and not quite knowing what to expect. He’d heard stories that were both frightening and exhilarating, and he found himself feeling sick with anticipation and fear the night before. Luhan had begun the lecture by telling him to always be polite and not talk too much.

 

‘’Only answer. Never speak unless you’re spoken to. Even if they try to rile you up.’’

 

He should hand them their business cards immediately, making sure things were strictly about business.

 

‘’Boys have it easier,’’ Luhan had slurred around a cigarette, ‘’most of the time you don’t get unwanted attention.’’

 

Girls did, Luhan told him, but it was best not to say anything about that. Best to act like you don’t even notice it, really. It’ll happen anyway, he said, so what are you gonna do? It was their problem, really, he meant. He told Jongin about a boy he knew who had tried to complain about it and who wasn’t heard of again.

 

‘’It’s the company’s policy. If the girls object, they can just leave, yeah?’’ He shrugged.

 

He went on to tell Jongin that while they weren’t pleasant, company drinks did give you the best opportunities in the end.

 

‘’Got a sweet gig this one time. Know what I did for that? Actually, never mind, I’m can’t tell you about that.’’

 

Jongin watched a remnant of white powder near his nose intently.

 

‘’You want to be like me, huh? You want to be successful? You’ve got to woo them. Be like Kai, not like Jongin. If you play your cards right you’ll get a great opportunity.’’

 

The older man hissed as he burned his fingers on his too-short cigarette stub.

 

‘’Oh, right,’’ Luhan sat up shakily, apparently remembering something, ‘’whatever you do,’’ he punctuated his words, ‘’don’t let the fuckers touch you.’’

 

*

 

The first thing Jongin realises when he wakes up is that he doesn’t realise where he is and how he got there. He tries to think back from where the evening had begun but finds a large part missing. He’s not sure how it happened but he’s scared to think what he might not remember.

 

He’s still wearing the white shirt and black pants he’d worn to the party but his head feel oddly big and heavy, a painful twinge striking through the back of it every couple of seconds.

 

The door opens and Jongin’s chest tightens, doesn’t know what to do. His first instinct is to run but then a familiar face greets him and he feels so relieved he might cry.

 

‘’Chanyeol,’’ he says.

 

The other man steps inside. There’s an angry look on his face. His shoulders are tightly wound and his hands are strongly gripping the glass of water in his hands which he gives to Jongin.

 

‘’Drink this.’’ He says with such force Jongin doesn’t dare ask what had happened. He’s never seen Chanyeol like this before and it’s unnerving not to see a big smile paired with that voice. He sips the water quietly while Chanyeol sits down on the edge of the tub, arms crossed and lips pressed into a thin line, watching him. Jongin has a gut feeling Chanyeol’s angry with him but he doesn’t remember what he’s done to infuriate the other man. He wants to explain this to him but his stare is too heavy so Jongin blinks, looks away.

 

As he looks at his hands circling around the glass he finds patches of orange and red scattered on his clothes. It’s vomit. He’s suddenly hyper aware of the damp mess sinking into his clothes, to his skin, and his head feels too heavy again, vision blackening for a moment.

 

He’s going to be sick again.

 

Chanyeol catches him just in time, dragging him to the tub and it feels like hell when his insides come up again, a vile chunky mess of food spilling out of his mouth and into the white marble. Tears well up in his eyes and he spits violently, trying desperately to get the awful taste out of his mouth. It’s disgusting and he doesn’t want Chanyeol to see him this way. He tries to wriggle out of the other man’s strong hold on his shoulder but finds himself unable to, his strength drained long ago.

 

Chanyeol cleans him up after that, lets the shower run first, hot water splashing on white tiles while he peels off Jongin’s soiled clothes and if Jongin wasn’t embarrassed before, he is now.

 

He’s still not given an explanation but he feels sick and weak so he lets Chanyeol take care of him, scrubbing his skin a little harshly in his anger.

 

‘’I’m not a kid,’’ he protests weakly while Chanyeol shampoos his hair like his mother used to when he was eight and not able to go to school because of his flu. Chanyeol says nothing.

 

He’s put into soft silk pyjamas and tucked into a small bed and it’s then that Jongin realises he’s probably in Chanyeol’s apartment. The walls are lined with tall, tall men in basketball jerseys and there’s a familiar mess of clothes and a wall of hats Chanyeol wears when he comes to work. He wants to ask Chanyeol where he’ll sleep but his bones feel like they’re melting into his skin, his skin still warm from the shower and his eyes fall shut easily.

 

*

 

It’s a little lighter when he wakes up and he’s not sure what time it is but he feels like he’s slept for at least twelve hours. The nausea is gone and his strength has returned and he steps out of the bed easily. As soon as his feet touch the wooden floor he remembers last night and embarrassment strikes through him. There’s no sound in the apartment and he prays he might be able to get out without Chanyeol noticing him.

 

Instant panic returns to him as he realises the schedules he must have missed and he needs his phone, needs to contact his manager immediately –

 

‘’Glad to see you’re up.’’ A deep voice booms through the room and Jongin turns around to see Chanyeol standing in the doorframe, completely dressed but looking like he hasn’t slept and knowing the reason for that, he feels guilty.

 

‘’Sit your ass down at my kitchen table,’’ he says, ‘’we’re going to have a little chat.’’

 

A surge of anger runs through Jongin at being treated so condescendingly but he finds himself following the order anyway. What could he do, really, when it was him who woke up in Chanyeol’s apartment?

 

He sits down on one of the plastic chairs. A bowl of rice, still steaming, is put in front of him with a clang. Chanyeol walks over to the other side and slides the chair back slowly before sitting down. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Jongin as he motions for him to eat. Jongin picks the chopsticks up but he really doesn’t have time for Chanyeol’s games, has to get back to work, so he slams them down again just as quickly.

 

‘’Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’’

 

‘’Only after you eat. I think I deserve that request after I helped you when you puked up your guts last night.’’

 

‘’I don’t know what happened last night!’’ Jongin cries, wanting to punch himself when his voice breaks a little. Chanyeol’s dark eyes are still fixed on him, gaze intense. He scoffs then, snatching his snap back off and running hands through his hair in a frustrated manner. It takes a couple of seconds before he finally responds.

 

‘’What happened last night,’’ he begins, ‘’is you took one of those pretty little pills one of the KBS men gave you and your body went completely bonkers. I don’t even know what they might have done to you if I hadn’t happened to be there. Do you even know what’s in those pills, Jongin? Because I know you take them more often. I’ve seen you. The main component for that is hydrochloric acid. You know what happens when they drop that shit on your skin? It fucking burns, that’s what happens. I don’t know whether to kill those fuckers for drugging you or be angry with you for being so fucking naïve.’’ He rambles and the way he looks at Jongin makes his skin feel hot with anger.

 

‘’I’m not a child,’’ he spits back, ‘’I can make my own decisions.’’

 

His anger is only fuelled when Chanyeol chuckles at that as if Jongin’s making a great joke.

 

‘’Yeah, I saw that last night. Real impressive decision making there,  _Kai_.’’

 

He’s lurching across the table before he knows it, grabs Chanyeol’s hair and neck and digs his nail into skin. They fall of their chairs and to the ground with heavy thumps, legs kicking in the air and Jongin groans when Chanyeol pulls his hair roughly, head painfully thudding against the wooden floor. Chanyeol reacts too quickly, almost as if he’d been expecting Jongin to attack him and his strength is much bigger than Jongin’s, easily pressing the younger man’s arms down next to his head. Jongin sputters a few moments but all his strength doesn’t even make a difference. Chanyeol has him in his grip, trapped beneath his body, and Jongin feels so fucking small. It’s really not fair at all because Chanyeol has no right; he’s fine, he can take care of himself, knows what he’s doing.

 

He moves his head to the side when he realizes his chest is heaving with sobs, not wanting to let Chanyeol see his defeat, and he thinks this might all just be a big fucking joke. That there’ll be cameras shoved in his face anytime soon, a PD telling him this was their fun little experiment. They might as well.

 

His crying turns hysterical, and he finds himself terrified by how he’s absolutely unable to control his body right now, realises it might just be the drugs still in his blood. All bad memories pile up in his mind making the tears flow faster, and Chanyeol must think he’s an absolute freak.

 

He is an absolute freak, lying on his friend’s floor after attacking him for what? Taking care of him when he went and got himself drugged up?

 

Chanyeol lifts him up easily and when he’s pressed against the other man’s chest his hands clutch at large shoulders, holding on for dear life as he presses his sobs into Chanyeol’s chest, trying to stop the ugly noises that spill from his throat.

 

‘’Oh, Jongin…’’ Chanyeol sighs.

 

He holds the bundle of pop star until Jongin stops crying, wipes his tears and pats him on the back as Jongin walks out of the door despite his protests, on his way to another twenty-four hour schedule. Jongin might look strong on the outside with his height and his muscles and his confident movements, but Chanyeol sees through him like glass. He’s seen the darkness in those eyes and he knows what that means.

 

He’s been in the industry long enough to have seen it happen before.

 

He wonders how long it’ll take before Jongin snaps.

 

*

 

Jongin steers clear of drugs for a couple of weeks following the accident, not trusting even his manager’s steady supply, and it’s harder now that he’s gotten used to the subtle help the pills had provided but he drags himself through it anyway.

 

Promotions are done and his schedule is a lot less hectic; performing only at schools and other special events, and he’s in the van a lot which means he gets to sleep.

 

He’s still tired though and his concentrations had been wearing twenty minutes ago so that he can’t quite catch the interviewer’s soft words anymore. She’s pretty, short and petite with long black hair brushed across her forehead, ‘natural’ make-up on her bought face. She’s asking him a question which he didn’t catch but his manager answers for him, telling her they don’t allow questions on relationships and Jongin almost laughs as she nods seriously.

 

Being an idol is a big joke, really. He loves the singing and the dancing but he can’t pretend he wouldn’t be happy to just drop the whole act of being a pure virginal mama’s boy who’s always kind and never mean. He doesn’t understand how anyone buys it but he does realise that the pretention is what makes fifteen year-olds buy his albums and keeps his pay check coming, so he plays along.

 

‘’My ideal type is a cute girl, someone with a kind heart.’’ He tells the interviewer. A quick glance at the clock tells him there are only a couple of minutes left. He’s appearing on a family show after this, expanding his market, his manager had told him. Get into those noona’s hearts and into their wallets. He catches the interviewer’s eyes as he looks back at the list of questions and grins sheepishly. She’s pretty when she smiles back and as she leans forward to write his answer down there’s a flash of her bra which he’s pretty sure was intentional. He wonders if she’d let him fuck her against the wall in the men’s toilet, if she’d moan his name as he’d bruise that porcelain skin.

 

A cute girl. A girl with a kind heart.

 

*

 

Chanyeol is a great guy. He’s handsome and funny and kind to the people he likes. He’s a good drinker but goes to the gym regularly, asks Jongin to buy him food with aegyo that makes him cringe but also cry with laughter. He’s liked by virtually everyone he meets.

 

Chanyeol thinks Jongin is a great guy, too. He might tease Jongin by pretending to be his fan but he compliments the younger when he comes off stage, sweaty and exhausted, tells him he did well. On good nights, Jongin can out drink him, and he tells Jongin that he’s truly a man. He listens to Chanyeol’s rambling about basketball, something most people don’t bother to and he appreciates it. Chanyeol takes care of Jongin when he messes up, lets Jongin cry but never cries himself, gives him strength and advice to go on.

 

Jongin is Chanyeol’s good little dongsaeng and that would be great if it weren’t for Jongin’s feelings for the older man.

 

It’s nothing like Kyungsoo or Sehun, which makes it worse.

 

He loves Chanyeol.

 

It starts out as a crush, of course, but Jongin doesn’t realise exactly when it becomes more than that and then he’s too late, already falling. He wants nothing more for the rest of his life to rest in Chanyeol’s arms, to listen to Chanyeol’s voice, to see Chanyeol’s smile. He’d be consoled if he would be given a minute to live with Chanyeol rather than a hundred years without. Every molecule in his body seems to urgently need his presence. He feels it so strongly it actually hurts.

 

It hurts all the more when Chanyeol flips the screen of his mobile phone around, showing Jongin whatever girl he’d taken home earlier that week with a grin on his face, manly pride in his voice.

 

‘’She’s all right, yeah?’’

 

Jongin feels happy when Chanyeol’s around. With Chanyeol’s hand in his hair, his head on his shoulder and the TV on some American action movie he’s not really watching, Jongin thinks about how wonderful everything could be like this. If only Chanyeol would stay by his side always.

 

But Chanyeol doesn’t.

 

He goes through legions of different girls, all pretty and sexy and exactly Chanyeol’s type, before he meets a nice girl that’s two years younger than him and makes him go to piano concerts and lectures on 19th century poets and Jongin knows Chanyeol’s got it bad when she succeeds in getting him into a suit. They’re seeing a play, Shakespeare, and Jongin had laughed when Chanyeol had told him about it. She hangs off of his arm in a pretty white dress looking like an absolute angel and Jongin can’t help but feel jealous of the look he sends her way.

 

‘’I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you!’’ she says, voice sweet like honey, ‘’Chanyeol’s told me so much about you. Your newest single is very nice, my niece is a fan.’’

 

Jongin shakes her hand with a smile and sends them off with an autographed CD.

 

He locks up Chanyeol’s apartment and as the door shuts behind him he knows he’s never coming back.

 

*

 

Chanyeol means happiness and excruciating pain. Chanyeol is all warm hands stroking his hair and a deep voice next to his ear, late-night admissions of fear. He’s Jongin’s shelter in time of storm.

 

Chanyeol is Jongin’s first love – the one he never gets to have.

 


	4. Kim Joonmyeon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate the way I ended this chapter.. might rewrite that someday but it's 5,000 words already and I didn't want to make it that long, yelp. Enjoy.

 

*

 

He first meets Kim Joonmyeon on the twenty-first of June.

 

Son of the CEO of the Plastic Fantastic companies, twenty-four years old and already a net worth amounting to millions of dollars. He owns a few companies here and there, toys gifted by his adoring father, as well as 2% of K-Show Entertainment stocks. Oxford-graduate and international playboy first class.

 

Jongin had been told Joonmyeon liked to be entertained, sometimes showing up at the front row of debut showcases of boy groups and girl groups alike, requesting VIP-passes for concerts or just taking a seat at a company dinner if he was in the mood, talking to the higher ups about money and possibilities.

 

He had requested to meet him, for some reason, and so Jongin finds himself on one of the vast golf courses in the Gangnam district.

 

It’s a summer day like the ones only South-Korea seems to get, hot and humid, making his clothes stick uncomfortably to Jongin’s skin.

 

He’s greeted by a calculated smile as Joonmyeon turns around, wearing layers of crisp white, blonde hair swept back to reveal Prada sunglasses. He nods to the golf club in his hand as it’s given to his assistant.

 

‘’Do you play?’’ is the first thing he asks and Jongin looks at his manager sheepishly before answering.

 

‘’Um… I’m afraid I’ve never had the chance.’’

 

The smile grows wider as Joonmyeon peels off his gloves, also white, slapping them into the hands of his assistant before putting his arm around Jongin’s shoulders as if they’re great chums, then drags him to the golf cart.

 

‘’You simply must. It’s a joy.’’ He insists as he takes place behind the wheel, tapping the seat next to him in an invitation. He chuckles when he notices Jongin’s hesitation.

 

‘’Your manager can walk. My assistant will guide him. Sit down, please.’’

 

He looks over his shoulder to see his manager already on his way and does as he’s told, takes place besides Joonmyeon. The silly little vehicle starts to move almost immediately. The man is short, shorter than he had expected, Jongin now notices. Somehow it hadn’t been as noticeable when he’d been standing.

 

‘’I always like to have personal contact with someone in my companies,’’ he informs Jongin over the roaring sound of the motor, slightly leaning towards the other man. ‘’Of course, the company you work for isn’t my company but I’m sure you catch my drift. A farmer must invariably keep watch over his cattle. Excuse the vulgar metaphor, please.’’

 

He grins then and Jongin chuckles nervously as he realises Joonmyeon has just made a joke. Perhaps it’s the heat melting his brain but he hasn’t understood a single thing the other man has said so far. They’re all words that seem to belong in a different conversation.

 

‘’My name is Kim Jongin. It’s very nice to meet you.’’ He says because that’s usually where he starts when meeting someone new. Joonmyeon laughs then, a genuine laugh, and pats Jongin on his shoulder.

 

‘’Oh dear, you are quite the figure,’’ he chuckles. The club house is coming into sight now, slowly, and Jongin feels relieved at the prospect of getting Joonmyeon out of his personal space. ‘’I say, do your friends call you Jongin? Or do you prefer Kai? Perhaps some other invention of your own imagination?’’

 

‘’Um. Just Jongin, I guess.’’

 

The golf cart jolts to a still, Joonmyeon returning the vehicle to its stationary position. The sunglasses are pulled off and he stares at Jongin for a couple of uncomfortable seconds. His hand disappears into his shirt then, swiftly producing a business card which he slips into the pocket of Jongin’s shirt, fingers presses over his chest.

 

‘’Jongin-ah. I can tell we’re going to be the greatest of friends.’’

 

As Joonmyeon smiles, the expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

*

 

Much to Jongin’s disdain, Joonmyeon wishes to see him again. He gets an invitation to luncheon in a fucking letter of all things, stamped by the family’s coat of arms and his manager tells him he absolutely has to go because Joonmyeon and his family are at least ten times as powerful as their company and if Joonmyeon falls out with them, things won’t look so pretty.

 

So Jongin goes to the Belladonna club on Wednesday afternoon dressed in a white shirt and black pants. As he gets out of his car paparazzi crowds around him, presses into his personal space and he almost runs for the entrance.

 

Things start a little more like usual now, Joonmyeon shaking his hand as he arrives at their table in the centre of the room, all white marble, clean-cut lines and flower bouquets. There’s classical music playing in the background and Jongin feels like he walked in on a Downton Abbey parody.

 

‘’I do apologise for the nastiness as you arrived,’’ Joonmyeon says as he splays a white napkin down in his lap. ‘’it’s normally unheard of at the club. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.’’ He concludes with a smile. Jongin doesn’t ask.

 

Joonmyeon’s expression turns stern and he actually snaps his fingers to call the waiter who comes running immediately.

 

‘’I hope you don’t mind, I already ordered some appetizers for us. I wasn’t sure if you youngsters at the company are allowed alcohol though so I thought I’d leave the choice to your good self.’’

 

‘’I’ll have the, err – just give me some red whine. A good year?’’ he says, feigning confidence and Jongin can tell through the waiter’s poker face that he knows he doesn’t belong here even as he accepts the unread wine list with a ‘very good, sir’.

 

He turns back to Joonmyeon then and the other man is staring at him again, head resting on his hands and the corners of his mouth pulled upwards in something that would normally resemble a smile. It looks odd on his features. Jongin returns the expression but can’t quite meet the older man’s eyes. Something about his presence is unsettling and if Jongin could, he’d bolt out the door, paparazzi or not. As his responsibilities are, he’s practically nailed to the chair.

 

The appetizers arrive soon enough, along with his wine and Jongin vaguely wonders how long Joonmyeon had been waiting for him. He thinks he might apologise for maybe making him wait but that seems silly and he doesn’t want to look silly in front of Joonmyeon – something which doesn’t have anything to do with having to please the other man for his company.

 

Joonmyeon talks a lot, things Jongin doesn’t understand and words he hasn’t heard of. Some of it doesn’t sound like Korean though, so his ignorance is justified there. He lets Joonmyeon ramble on and on, preferring to keep his mouth shut and stuffs his face with the never-ending mysterious foods being brought to their table on silver platters and china dishes.

 

The older man speaks in such a way that makes everything he says sound like his philosophy, one he is willing to share just with Jongin, the secret key he’s giving him if he‘ll only lean in to listen.

 

Jongin doesn’t like it.

 

‘’You see, the problem with our generation is such: we have gotten weary. Forgive me for using such a dull word but it does so strike to the core of what I must bring across,’’ he says as he spreads some sort of paste over a piece of toast, ‘’it pains me to see so many without passion. Truthfully, I believe we’d be better of without such people. Now I know that might sound tasteless and ribald but bear with me. What is life without passion? What is life without art, music, cinema, beauty? Why, a struggle of survival! And life is more than that for us, Jongin. We are not animals.’’

 

He pauses then, something Jongin notices he does often when making a point.

 

‘’You and I, we are part of a different kind, Jongin. The both of us are still very distant of course, I am aware, but I still respect you, humble as your disposition may be.’’

 

A vague notion of being offended passes through Jongin’s mind but he doesn’t pay attention to it, swallows another saba maki instead.

 

‘’We have passion running through our veins. We cannot simply sit back and watch, no! Always have we been meant to be the dramatis personae, the ingénue, the soubrette if you will. And, well,’’

 

Joonmyeon sighs, putting the silver cutlery down for a minute to sip his wine instead, another pause for dramatic effect. He looks at Jongin with a sorry expression as he continues.

 

‘’I fear I must be rather more indelicate than I’d like to be for an instant. Your situation is such that I’m afraid it’ll be quite hard, quite hard indeed, for you to bring that passion to the public in the extent that I am of the opinion you should.’’

 

‘’You think my company is a bit crap?’’

 

‘’Such an ingenious way with language, see, you’re only proving my point further. Will you let me help you, Jongin? I can open up paths you wouldn’t even have dreamed of, pardon me, but it’s true.’’

 

Jongin has no idea what the guy is talking about. His stomach is full, he’s had too much wine and the barely-there violin screeching in his ear is making him slightly irritated. He’s ready to get on with his schedule. Keep him close, the company had said, very well then.

 

He shrugs.

 

‘’Sure.’’

 

The fingers around Joonmyeon’s wine glass grip so tight Jongin’s worried it might break. He thinks there might be tears in Joonmyeon’s eyes as his mouth breaks out in a smile.

 

‘’Jongin-ah. I am so happy we are to be friends.’’

 

*

 

The third time they meet it’s on Joonmyeon’s yacht. He’d been invited to one of Joonmyeon’s party’s which was a big deal, apparently, because hugely famous and influential people came to Joonmyeon’s parties. KBS didn’t care about that though and once Jongin has finished his schedule and arrives on the imposing vessel it’s obvious the party is over, or is at least very much in its dying stage.

 

He’s a bit relieved, really, because he’s tired even with the drugs running through his veins, but he’s disappointed too. Though he wouldn’t admit to it, he had been interested to see what the fuss was all about.

 

It’s dark on the yacht, midnight and not a lot of lights on, and he gets no assistance as he scrambles along the wood to search for his host. He thinks he’ll greet Joonmyeon, apologise for being late, sit with him for a while as he lets the older man talk, and then get back to the dorms for two hours of sleep if he’s lucky.

 

He finds Joonmyeon on the deck, once again dressed completely in white, sitting cross-legged on an equally white sofa, a glass of red wine dangling from his hand. He seems to be lost in the waves before he notices Jongin’s footsteps, shifting his head ever so slightly in a greeting.

 

‘’Jongin,’’ he calls, spilling a little wine as he stretches his arms wide, ‘’my dear fellow!’’

 

His voice sounds less controlled than the other times Jongin’s met him and the glazed look in his eyes tells him the other man is probably a little drunk, if not more. He doesn’t actually know what Joonmyeon gets up to in his free time, if he likes a white line or not. It’s not his business; he doesn’t really care.

 

He bows a polite ninety degrees and sits down next to Joonmyeon when the man shifts in his seat to create some space next to him.

 

His heart nearly catches in his chest when he realises what Joonmyeon had been staring at had not been the waves.

 

About ten feet away from them, though it feels like much less, he can see the writhing figures of two young men, their nearly naked bodies glimmering with sweat. The shadows are heavy but Jongin sees the scene clearly.

 

He nearly chokes on his spit.

 

‘’What.’’ Is what he says because really, what?

 

Joonmyeon circles the wine in his glass, wrist moving ever so slightly, and narrows his eyes. He seems oddly unaffected by the whole exposition and Jongin wonders if he had indeed taken some sort of drug, if he’s just out of this world, or if perhaps Joonmyeon is straight and this is some kind of fucked-up ploy to out him. He wouldn’t put it past the man; he seems like a maniac.

 

Joonmyeon takes another slow sip of the bitter liquid. One of the men let out a soft, breathy sound then, too loud in the still of the night and Jongin watches as Joonmyeon’s throat restricts.

 

‘’Women hold an extraordinary beauty,’’ he begins suddenly. One of the two men slides down the other’s body, big hands sliding into short hair and Jongin has to look away. He tries to ignore the warm burn that flashes up in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t understand what’s going on and it’s absurd, unsettling and he wishes his manager hadn’t sent him alone.  

 

‘’They are praised for their beauty. And rightly so, wouldn’t you agree?’’

 

Joonmyeon asks, turning towards him with a serious expression. Jongin just shrugs, shoulders tight, staring intently at a shred of glass forgotten on the floor. Long thin fingers grab his chin and tilt his head up roughly to meet Joonmyeon’s eyes.

 

His mouth is in a thin line. There is no smile this time.

 

‘’You were asked a question, Jongin-ah.’’

 

‘’Y-yes. I agree.’’ Jongin sputters pathetically, throat feeling too tight and his nerves on edge.

 

An arm is slung over his shoulder, shoving him closer to Joonmyeon. The other hand doesn’t leave his chin, making sure he’s staring at the two men in front of him. There’s not a hint of shakiness in Joonmyeon’s voice as he continues his speech.

 

‘’But, you see, we often forget about the beauty men possess. It is a shame that such things get forgotten in our society today, yes?’’

 

His nod doesn’t come quick enough for Joonmyeon; fingers grabbing his hair and pulling down with pure force and Jongin’s clawing hands are slapped away easily. The rough pull makes tears spring into his eyes and when he lets out a small whimper he swears he can see a grin beginning to form on Joonmyeon’s face.

 

‘’The Greeks celebrated it. Da Vinci cherished it, Tchaikovsky fell victim to it. Oscar Wilde’s most famous work has its heart to thank for it. So many great men applauded for what their passion brought forth and yet male beauty is seen as something inferior to so many. Not me, Jongin. I don’t. I am an admirer of male beauty, do you see what I mean?’’

 

He instantly nods, head shaking violently and Joonmyeon actually chuckles, the fingers in his hair petting him before they fall away to slide down his chest, coming to a rest at his hip and Jongin curses his body for responding, hips bucking up, wanting to be touched.

 

He’s fucking scared but he can still see the men moving in front of him, kissing and touching and it feels far too private, far too erotic for it to be on display like this and it ignites a wave of lust in his veins.

 

A memory of his first kiss flashes through his mind, Kyungsoo’s eyes big and confused, and he wonders where that innocence went.

 

Joonmyeon leans in to whisper to him, breath hot against his ear.

 

‘’Look at them, Jongin. Aren’t they beautiful?’’

 

Jongin bites his lip and shuts his eyes tightly as he nods, shame coursing through him, because God yes, they _are_ beautiful, hard muscles moving under tanned skin, pretty sounds falling from full lips.

 

His zipper is pulled down by Joonmyeon, slender fingers sliding underneath his boxers to grip his cock, half-hard just by looking, _imagining_. He can feel Joonmyeon’s grin against his neck when he eagerly bucks up into the touch. He’s glad for the darkness because he’s sure he’s burning red, recent schedules not having allowed himself any release, let alone by anyone else and he’s too wound up to last very long.

 

He wants to touch and be touched all at the same time, wants to feel hot skin underneath his hands and wants to hear deep groans falling from chapped lips. One of the men meets his eyes for a second and Jongin can see the want in there; wants to feel it too.

 

It doesn’t help when Joonmyeon fuels his desires by returning to whisper in his ear, voice still as steady as ever, low and demanding.

 

‘’What are you thinking of, Jongin? Do you want to touch them? Do you want to join them?’’

 

‘’O-oh God, yes. Yes, I want to – ‘’

 

It really does hurt when Joonmyeon tilts his head backwards then, so far it feels like much more and his neck’s going to snap, fingers tangling in his hair.

 

It sparks electricity in his veins.

 

He wants to feel it again.

 

‘’You don’t get to. Only I am allowed to see you like this,’’ Joonmyeon hisses as he pulls Jongin’s head back even further. ‘’You are mine.’’

 

Joonmyeon’s hand doesn’t move. It’s all too much and Jongin needs him to move, wants to come so badly, and he bucks his hips up again, trying to gain friction but Joonmyeon’s got his hips in a dead grip, not allowing him any space.

 

He whimpers.

 

‘’What was that?’’

 

‘’Please, Joonmyeon hyung,’’ he whines, hands coming up to hide his face. He’s so close from just a couple of touches and it’s all so filthy and wrong and he can barely even believe what’s happening to him.

 

Joonmyeon doesn’t slap his hands away, taking pity on him, but he does lean in to Jongin’s ear once more.

 

‘’I’ll need to hear you say it.’’ he singsongs.

 

Jongin’s throat is dry as he swallows.

 

‘’I’m yours.’’

 

A smile.

 

‘’Good boy.’’

 

*

 

 

As his fame grows, his schedule grows tighter, every nook or cranny that might have been free before filling up with endorsements and CFs and modelling jobs. Everything to get his face out there, make people know who Kim Kai is. He’s back to only sleeping in the van again, though he sometimes dozes off during a particularly trying shoot for some family show. He tries to keep up with the outside world on his little black iPad as they drive from location to location.

 

‘’Guess what,’’ he says to his manager who meets his eyes in the rear-view mirror.

 

‘’What?’’

 

‘’’t was my mother’s birthday yesterday.’’

 

‘’It was? Congratulations!’’

 

Jongin smiles bitterly.

 

He deletes the angry texts his sisters send him the next couple of hours, full of complaints and demands which are things Jongin gets enough as it is, really.

 

His mother doesn’t call though, and it stings.

 

He wants to apologise for being a shitty son because this isn’t the first time’s he’s fucked up but there’s not even time for that and he doesn’t know what he should do, doesn’t want to send her a sad little birthday text because she deserves more than that. So he does what’s easiest: ignores the problem.

 

He knows the same thing will happen when his father’s birthday comes along, or Christmas and New Year, or when his sister’s baby finally gets to take his (her? he hasn’t asked) first breath.

 

His iPad shows his latest appearance on Family Matters as he hugs the daughter of the couple about to divorce and she giggles as he lifts her up, spins her around, and the expressions of the women on screen visibly soften. The couple’s hands are clutched tightly together and they share a teary-eyed glance at each other before announcing that their marriage won’t be coming to an end, after all.

 

‘’As expected,’’ the MC announces, ‘’family is the most important thing.’’

 

*

 

Joonmyeon, for all his bad points, makes a welcome distraction.

 

He isn’t sure how to qualify their relationship. Jongin doesn’t have free time, doesn’t have time for his friends but it’s of importance to the company that they keep their favourite stockholder happy and Jongin notices his manager moving his schedule around to fit in whatever plans Joonmyeon has made for them. That would make their relationship a business one and Jongin’s not sure what that makes him, considering he’s face-to-mattress in most of their meetings. He prefers to think of it instead as spending time with his friend, something Joonmyeon loves to repeat.

 

Joonmyeon doesn’t call or text or even writes (something Jongin had expected to be honest, the man had all the manners of a Regency dandy), preferring to keep all their contact face-to-face.

 

Joonmyeon parades him around in front of others as if he’s just another painting he’s acquired throughout his many travels, insists he dresses in white only, arm possessively around Jongin’s waist as he shakes hands with the people that rule South-Korea’s economy. Jongin doesn’t get to talk at these kind of things (not that he would know what to say between the jargon and just generally posh language) but Joonmyeon fills him up with delicious food and five hundred dollar-wines and presents him with lavish gifts and business opportunities, which makes it so that he doesn’t mind, truly. Mostly though, he invites Jongin over to his Gangnam residence, the Seoul penthouse if Jongin’s particularly busy.

 

He always takes his time, even when Jongin has to leave in just an hour, glancing at the clock continuously so Joonmyeon just has to blindfold him, touch him until he’s writhing on the black of Joonmyeon’s sheets, forgetting everything except the older man’s name.

 

They don’t travel because Jongin doesn’t have the time but Joonmyeon loves telling him about St. Barths and Ibiza and the Hamptons. He has this lovely apartment in the centre of Rome, he tells Jongin over dinner, where they simply have to visit, they simply must.

 

‘’You’d be lovely in Rome,’’ he tells Jongin as he unbuttons his white shirt, hands sliding over tanned skin, pressing kisses to his neck, and Jongin sometimes fools himself into thinking Joonmyeon will be gentle when he starts like that, all compliments and tender touches.

 

He never is, though.

 

Joonmyeon seems to take some sort of sick pleasure in seeing Jongin humiliated. He will fuck him into the mattress with his hands bound behind his back until he has Jongin gasping and pleading to _please_ touch him, please, sir. He inevitably leaves him to take care of himself, Joonmyeon’s cum on his face, throwing a towel his way as he slides towards the bathroom.

 

Afterwards, when he’s jerked off furiously, his other hand clutching the covers, Joonmyeon will glide out of the shower impeccably dressed and a smile on his face when he sees the younger boy with his knees up to his chest, back to him, looking so small and lovely. The bed will dip as he joins him on the black, reaching over to tilt Jongin’s head up so he can gaze into those dark orbs, still filled with lust and ecstasy (3,4-[methylenedioxy](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Methylenedioxy)-[methamphetamine](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Methamphetamine)). He’ll dip his fingers to Jongin’s stomach, wiping up his mess and bringing it up to Jongin’s mouth for him to taste himself.

 

‘’Always so beautiful for me, my dear Jongin-ah.’’ He’ll coo as Jongin’s tongue slides around the digits.

 

And Jongin will smile.

 

*

 

‘’I say, are you one for studying the subject of animal behavioural sciences?’’ Joonmyeon asks him from where he’s standing ten feet high on the ladder of the grand bookcase in his study.

 

Jongin lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at Joonmyeon, then tells him no. He’s splayed out on the white chaise-longue facing the bookcase, Game Boy Color in his hands. The familiar tune of Tetris starts to play and Joonmyeon doesn’t complain so he keeps it on.

 

‘’Well, I can’t say I pegged you for the type,’’ Joonmyeon chuckles and Jongin sends him a quick smile from over the device in his hands because Joonmyeon hates not being acknowledged and loses a row of five in the process, causing him to curse under his breath. He can feel rather than see the frown on Joonmyeon’s face and he rolls his eyes at the older man’s tut.

 

‘’Don’t swear, Jongin, it’s very unbecoming, you know I don’t like it.’’ he lectures before finally climbing down the ladder carrying a heavily-bound book to sit down next to Jongin, one hand in the boy’s hair and the other casually flipping the pages. Jongin leans in ever so slightly to the touch and puts the Game Boy on his stomach as he loses for the fifth time in two minutes, looks over at what Joonmyeon’s reading. They’re small roman letters Jongin recognises as English, but that doesn’t mean he understands.

 

‘’What’s that?’’ he yawns.

 

Joonmyeon wets his fingers before flicking the page.

 

‘’When I was at Oxford I used to, for a short period of time, be involved in a club that did studies on animal behaviour,’’ he begins and Jongin groans, leaning on Joonmyeon’s shoulder to settle in for another story.

 

‘’It was all unsupervised so we were rather an undexterous companionship but alas, we took the matter quite seriously, as is to be expected of gentlemen of Oxford. We would set out to find facts about animals that were most interesting and in the end the rightful champion would be lavishly rewarded by the others in food and drinks. The world of nature is quite a stunning one, Jongin-ah. This book I have here, I was just reminded of it yesterday. You see, I had luncheon with one of my old Oxford palls and our conversation happened to touch upon the club for a minute. I won this one time by divulging a rather remarkable fact about the larvae of the Epomis ground beetle. The fact itself was quite dull in comparison to some I’ve heard in my time at the club but I won nevertheless, which you can imagine made a content man of me.’’

 

‘’What was it?’’

 

 Here Joonmyeon turns another page and points at a picture which has Jongin scrunching up his nose in disgust, making Joonmyeon laugh.

 

‘’What the hell is that?’’ Jongin nearly shrieks.

 

‘’The larvae entice amphibians,’’ Joonmyeon pauses and sighs deeply when he finds no sign of understanding on Jongin’s face, ‘’that means frogs and toads, they entice them – and then they latch onto parts of their bodies. The poor animal in distress might try to fight or run but alas, the larvae will refuse to let go, feeding off their victims until the animal dies a painful death.’’

 

‘’That’s pretty neat.’’ Jongin admits.

 

‘’Isn’t it? I think it has quite the romantic emphasis. To persuade something beautiful and whole, to coax it into acceptance before bringing it down ruthlessly, feeding off the misery of the other. Quite the crime.’’

 

Jongin frowns at his Game Boy.

 

‘’I wouldn’t call that romantic.’’

 

Joonmyeon closes the book with a heavy thud. He can feel the other man’s gaze return to him as warm fingers in his hair slide slowly down to his neck and he thinks he imagines the grip tightening.

 

‘’No,’’ Joonmyeon muses, ‘’perhaps not.’’

 

*

 

Joonmyeon, besides being an entrepreneur as well as the owner of several companies throughout Asia is also into a rather more secluded line of work.

 

‘’The rather more indelicate business,’’ he tells Jongin from his window seat. They’re twenty stories high at the Savoy, and Jongin had been forced to eat whatever room service brought up even though he’d been feeling miserable all day, complaining about not being able to eat. Joonmyeon had just smiled sweetly as he’d pushed the spoon into his mouth.

 

He pulls something out of his shirt, a tiny plastic bag filled with white power, and smiles up at the younger man lying on the bed. A black credit card is quickly brought out to swipe the stuff into neat little lines.

 

It doesn’t surprise Jongin at all. He’d known all along about Joonmyeon and his affection for the ‘rather more indelicate’ stuff. Why, every journalist in South-Korea knew. What does surprise him is that he lets Jongin see that side of him. It doesn’t fit with the gentlemanly image Joonmyeon is so eager to present to him.

 

‘’Come here,’’ Joonmyeon coos, waving his hand in an invitation. Jongin groans and rolls over, tangling himself in the white sheets. He feels the bed dip and then the silver platter is pushed into his face. As he lifts his head he notices one of the white lines has already disappeared. He pushes it away groggily, hand shaking.

 

He feels truly awful. He shouldn’t have agreed to meeting Joonmyeon tonight.

 

It had been a spur of the moment decision; Joonmyeon had called him and for some reason beyond the realm of normal human possibilities he’d actually been free. An empty evening and nobody to spend it with.

 

Joonmyeon lifts his head with a rough pull on his hair.

 

‘’It’s good stuff, I don’t get that bad shit,’’ he spits and Jongin’s taken aback by the sudden change in speech.

 

‘’I’m sick.’’  He protests. Joonmyeon’s face softens a bit at the words, the grip in his hair a gentler one. He presses a soft kiss to Jongin’s temple, lets one hand slide down Jongin’s arm to intertwine their hands. Jongin can see his pupils expanding, black drowning in black.

 

‘’I just want for us to feel the same. I feel so good, Jongin-ah. Don’t you want to feel good?’’ it’s said so softly, so tenderly, and Jongin recognises it for what it is; it’s Joonmyeon’s confession. He leans down, awkwardly looking up at Joonmyeon who strokes his hair quietly and gives him an assuring nod, eyes clouded.

 

It does make him feel good. Not immediately, but the feeling creeps up on him as he leans back against the headboard. It’s _much_ better than the pills his manager gives him. The two are incomparable, really.

 

A memory flashes through his mind. He remembers science class and the way Kyungsoo would sigh as he’d try to explain to Jongin the workings of his nervous system, of neurons and axons and sodium ions Jongin could never remember, pen clicking in frustration. It’d be brilliant if Kyungsoo were here, next to him, and would explain to Jongin what was making his body feel as if all his nerves were put on hold and what creates the great waves of pleasure gushing through his veins. Bloody brilliant.

 

Kyungsoo wouldn’t be here though, wouldn’t make decisions like these, and the memory turns bitter in Jongin’s mind.

 

Next to him, he hears Joonmyeon laugh, shaking him out of his thoughts. His hair is pushed out of his face and the cold of Joonmyeon’s hand makes him flinch slightly.

 

‘’It feels good, right?’’ he asks and Jongin nods, head lulling to the side. Joonmyeon catches it, grasps Jongin by his jaw with both his hands.

 

‘’So beautiful,’’ he whispers, voice tense with admiration and eyes hollow, ‘’my Kai.’’

 

*

 

Something changes in their relationship. Jongin’s not sure why, but ever since that night at the Savoy, Joonmyeon seems to prefer taking him out into public, something he’d be so adamant not to before. They visit clubs and exclusive parties and pretentious expositions by Joonmyeon’s so called friends. Jongin had noticed the people and their looks and their cameras and had shot a worried glance at the older man. Joonmyeon had told him he needn’t worry.

 

‘’I’ll keep the media hush.’’ He’d whispered into his ear during a fundraising gala, arm sliding over Jongin’s thigh and Jongin had smiled awkwardly as Joonmyeon had winked at the reporter sitting opposite.

 

Joonmyeon seemed to want more from him, these days. Physically at least.

 

He’d have him in the back seat of his obnoxious McLaren or down his knees in the men’s during the day, filling him up with drugs and booze in the secrecy of the night, white lines and pink pills and mister Moët and mister Chandon to accompany them until morning dawn.

 

Being with Joonmyeon makes him feel better. Joonmyeon is powerful and handsome and charming, born in a world far removed from his own, one of designer brands, $15,000 dollar hotel rooms and a car casually dangling from his wrist, hands moving to indicate time that’ll stop if he’ll only ask. Jongin spins around the other man as if he were a magnet, clashing together with brutal force.

 

He might not love, but he needs Joonmyeon.

 

*

 

‘’Have you been alright lately?’’ his manager asks when they’re eating lunch between takes, sitting on the uncomfortable plastic chairs of his dressing room. The sound of his voice seems to come from further away, as if Jongin’s not quite there, like how the voices would seem to echo in his ears when he was five and would dive under to grab his sister’s leg in the pool trying to make her fall. He curses himself for staying up the night instead of catching up of urgently needed sleep.

 

‘’Sure,’’ he says as he bites into a piece of chicken, ‘’why’d you ask?’’

 

His manager halts in between bites, chopsticks halfway to his mouth and gives him a doubtful look. Jongin hums around the mouthful, raises an eyebrow.

 

‘’Well? What is it?’’ He asks and his manager sighs, face scrunched up with worry.

 

‘’Have you looked into the mirror lately, Jongin? I mean, not with all that make-up and shit. Have you seen yourself? We’re lucky it doesn’t show that much on camera but you look like death warmed up. I’m pretty sure you’ve lost weight even though your trainer won’t tell me – ‘’

 

‘’You asked my trainer about my weight? What the hell for?’’

 

‘’Look here Jongin!’’ he shouts, voice loud in the quiet of the room and Jongin shuts up immediately, taken aback.

 

Kwangseok never screams at him. He might have lost his temper with members of staff, but never before with him. It takes him by surprise and he backs away ever so slightly.

 

‘’I’m your manager. If you don’t do well out there my job’s in danger too. I’ve got three mouths to feed at home, yeah? And right now you’re not doing so well. There’s rumours going on everywhere but you’re too drugged up to notice anything going on around you!’’

 

‘’What the hell?’’ Jongin snaps, ‘’you don’t get to complain about that! You gave me those pills first!’’

 

A look of disgust shoots over his manager’s face and his mouth is stretched into a long, thin line, jaw tight.

 

‘’I know you’ve found your own supply. It’s not my business what you get up to beyond working hours, I couldn’t care less if you like to get coked up in the middle of the night with that pretty little prince or whatever that little shit’s claim to fame might be, but it does interest me once it starts to affect your work. Which it is. So you better cut out the crap, or people are going to catch on and this time your little boyfriend won’t be able to protect you.’’

 

Jongin scoffs.

 

‘’You think I can’t get a different manager?’’

 

His manager actually laughs then, chopsticks snapping and the chicken rolls around in his mouth, smacked up into small bits Jongin can see as Kwangseok chews.

 

‘’What makes you think this is my order?’’

 

*

 

‘’You’re gorgeous like this,’’ Joonmyeon tells him as he presses the needle into his veins, arms gripping Joonmyeon’s shoulder and his head thrown back against cold white tiles. The sensation washes over him and he feels his body shake, struggles to keep his eyes open to find Joonmyeon’s eyes filled with love.

 

*

 

He thinks he imagines the flash of blond hair beyond tinted windows when he lands in Incheon, lands in Tokyo, imagines the sleek black Porsche waiting behind the fences of his dorm. He can swear he sees a familiar silhouette up on the fourteenth flour of Seoul’s skyscrapers, beckoning him. He thinks he dreams up the voice he can hear through the tone when he presses the green button, haunting him at night as he stares up at the white ceiling.

 

*

 

Joonmyeon means the night. His memory is one of excess; of lavish language and white shirts, black cards and black cars, of champagne and mescaline.

 

He remembers Joonmyeon’s dark eyes and light hair. His voice echoes in his mind and his touches linger on his body.

 

Joonmyeon runs through his veins. Like ecstasy.

 

 


	5. Lee Taemin (1/2)

 

 

*

 

His company manages to advert too much damage after their falling out with Joonmyeon and Jongin’s pretty sure it has something to do with a particularly pretty trainee that Jongin sees hanging off his arm in photos but he doesn’t concern himself with that, not when he feels so guilty for the little kid (because he really is a kid still).

 

His contract is renewed, another year he can be sure (almost) of his future and that gives him confidence. He works harder and better without the drugs and booze, his performances are less sloppy and his singing improves.

 

It pays off; the public loves him. Girls love him for his dreamy looks and not-so-subtle-songs, mothers want him as their son, guys think he’s an alright lad; he’s got the whole of South-Korea wrapped around his carefully manicured finger. He knows he’s doing extremely well when he’s actually rewarded with a holiday right before Christmas.

 

‘’Take some time to unwind. Rest. It’ll do you some good.’’ Chanyeol says while ruffling his hair in that endearing fashion and Jongin smiles at his reflexion in the mirror.

 

Their relationship had mostly remained the same. Jongin imagined this was mostly because the other man was too oblivious to notice his feelings. Chanyeol would think it a great joke if Jongin would kneel down and confess his love for him, clap his hands with those wide eyes full of laughter and tell him to stop being so cheeky.

 

He doesn’t get to visit Chanyeol’s house as often anymore but when he does, he’s often greeted with a black nightdress and nearly-vanished make-up from the night before.

 

‘’Oh hi,’’ Yoona smiles, long hair tucked behind her ears. She recognises him easily and unlocks the door, stepping aside to let him inside the apartment. ‘’Chanyeol’s in the shower,’’ she explains and her figure disappears into the kitchen. It’s almost a routine.

 

Jongin sits himself down on Chanyeol’s sofa and hugs one of the fluffy pink cushions (not Chanyeol’s) to his belly. The sound of running water can be heard in the apartment. It’s a gentle sound which Jongin likes and he remembers hearing it with one ear muffled, lying on his side on Chanyeol’s too small bed, the gentle sound cradling him into sleep. Long white legs are propped up on the sofa next to him and the memory shatters away cruelly.

 

She’s nothing short of stunning, Yoona, with long white limbs and a beautiful face (no plastic surgery, of course) and black hair that curls ever so slightly at the ends. She comes from a good family and is as witty as she is intelligent, easily making charming conversation with everyone she meets. She’s everything Chanyeol wants and nothing Jongin could ever be. He thinks that might make it hurt more.

 

‘’Sorry, did you want something to eat too? There’s still some leftover chicken from last night but that’s always kinda gross from the microwave.’’ She says over a mouthful of kimchi and Jongin waves the offer away.

 

‘’Thanks, but I’m only here to say hi. I’m on my way to my family. For Christmas.’’

 

She smiles and says that’s nice. Jongin smiles back.

 

It was only party a lie. He’d bought Chanyeol a watch. An expensive watch, because Chanyeol was the kind of guy that cared about showing off and Jongin knew if he didn’t gift him these things Chanyeol would be stupid enough to go out and buy them himself and then not have enough money for food the next month. He’d hoped to find him alone, that perhaps they could watch a game like old times with the TV’s light illuminating the room, chicken steaming in their laps and Chanyeol’s warm hand in his hair. He could give the watch to Chanyeol and watch that stupid face light up with joy.

 

However, he wasn’t an idiot. Whatever his secret hopes may have been, he’d counted on Yoona being there. She lived with Chanyeol, for God’s sake. So, on his way to Chanyeol’s apartment (a rather uncomfortable train ride with too many eyes pointed at him) he’d decided he would make pleasant conversation with the both of them, give Chanyeol his present and get on the first cab he’d find without any fangirls noticing him.

 

It really wasn’t that hard.

 

Except it was, with Chanyeol coming out of the shower looking better than Jongin with three hours in hair and make-up, smiling that smile of his. Long legs and dark hair swaying to reach up to meet Chanyeol’s lips, and Chanyeol slides an arm around the girl’s waist.

 

‘’I’m going to take a shower. You’re not wearing that to my parents’ house, Chanyeol!’’ Yoona warns, then presses a kiss to Chanyeol’s cheek as the man rolls his eyes. As Yoona hops off to the bathroom, Chanyeol sits himself down next to Jongin and right into his personal space. The hand on his thigh seems to burn into his skin and it takes all of his will not to stare at it, instead finding Chanyeol’s eyes shakily.

 

‘’On your way to your folks?’’ Chanyeol grins. Jongin nods.

 

They don’t talk about much. There’s never enough time for those deep-hearted, late-night sort of conversations.

 

Not anymore.

 

Chanyeol tells him they’re going to Yoona’s family for Christmas and there’s a silly story about his first meeting with Yoona’s father and it’s hilarious and heart-warming and so like Chanyeol, Jongin can imagine it all happening in his mind. He laughs and Chanyeol laughs too, ruffles his hair.

 

‘’Take care of yourself, Jongin-ah.’’ The older man tells him when he leaves and Jongin wants to cry at the sincerity of the words, the pure love in his voice. It’s never the right sort of love, the one he so desires. It makes him want to rip out his hair, to scream at the top of his lungs but he can’t stop the warm swell in his chest.

 

How do you make love go away?

 

On the second day of Christmas, he gets a letter concerning the engagement. We are so happy to announce to you and will you please attend our wedding next summer. Chanyeol calls him a day later, asks him ‘’isn’t it brilliant?’’ and Jongin doesn’t need to imagine his bright smile on the other side of the line.

 

He forgets about the watch, in the end.

 

*

 

Christmas is emotional and hard to get through with all the unsaid words and conversations that need to be had hanging in the air. His mother breaks down halfway through the film none of them are watching, clutching him to her chest and telling him how much she’s missed him, how much they’ve all missed him. Jongin cries harder than he ever recalls having cried and apologises for nearly everything but existing.

 

He’s forgiven, of course.

 

With the tension broken down, Jongin flows through the days a lot smoother and he’s surprised when he wakes up not to the sound of his alarm clock but to the feeling of the winter sun burning on his skin through thin white curtains. When he looks at his phone he realises it’s already noon and he’s slept for more than twelve hours.

 

It’s odd to wake up in his old bedroom. Everything feels too small and childish, from the posters on his wall to the computer games lined up on the book shelves to the Doraemon bedding scrunched around his waist. Nothing has changed except for a couple of photos put up (by his mother, obviously) of him smiling at the camera with some prize in his hands, his sisters smiling oafishly at each side, his parents striking a rather more contained pose on his left. Judging by his outfit and his ridiculous white hair (forever a reminder of Joonmyeon), it’s the evening of the Melon award.

 

Best album of the year.

 

It hadn’t been such a good year for him though.

 

He shivers from the cold as his bare feet hit the wooden panelling. Ice crystals line the corners of his thin window, showing him a city hidden beneath white and he feels like an eight-year-old again, in his too big pyjamas, going down for a cup of chocolate beneath the Christmas tree.

 

When he climbs down the stairs he finds the house empty so he takes his chance and goes to sneak a quick cigarette on the balcony. It’s the one bad habit he hasn’t been able to shake ever since parting with Joonmyeon. It’s too easy and comforting and Jongin thinks he deserves a bit of that in his life. He nearly swallows the thing when the door behind him opens suddenly and lets out a girlish shriek.

 

‘’Youngji,’’ he gasps, clutching his chest. His youngest sister grins then comes to stand next to him, leaning over the railing in that dangerous way she always did.

 

He doesn’t try to hide his cigarette, trusts her not to tell his parents anyway. It was no use trying to hide anything from Youngji, really. He’d stopped doing so a long time ago, ever since she had somehow found out about Jongin’s (not so) super-secret stash of gay porn hidden in his room. Youngji was there to talk to when he was in trouble. She didn’t judge nor ask. She listened, gave advice, then pretended like she didn’t know. She knew the answers to questions Jongin didn’t even know he’d asked himself. It was a comfort he’d dearly missed the past couple of years.

 

‘’Those things will kill you.’’ She warns, only half-mocking and Jongin rolls his eyes.

 

‘’So will you yourself if you don’t stop swaying back and forth. You realise we’re on the balcony right?’’ He scowls around a cloud of smoke.

 

‘’Charming as ever. So glad you’re back.’’ She coos. He flips her off for that and she makes an ugly sound, laughing as she leans forward as far as she possibly can, watching the cars speed by below them. He pulls her back softly, fingers wrapping around her arm. Much as he likes to pretend, he doesn’t actually want her to fall.

 

‘’It always makes me nervous when you do that.’’ He explains and she sighs, breath coming out in small white clouds. She crosses her arms to her chest, shivering visibly.

 

‘’I know. Gosh, it’s so cold!’’

 

‘’Yeah, I know. I like the snow though.’’ He says, stubbing the cigarette out beneath his foot. His sister nods, smiling.

 

‘’You always did. Me and Eunji hated it so much, we’d always cry because it was so cold and then you would nag mom and dad into making us take you out to sleigh. I seriously hated you when you did that, you know? Our pants would get all wet and cold and you’d steal our gloves and hide them in the snow because you thought that was funny.’’

 

Jongin can’t help but laugh. He didn’t remember those times that clearly, but looking back on it, it made sense. Teasing his sisters came natural for him. He himself had gotten teased plenty, too.

 

‘’Brother-sister love, eh?’’ he says and she nods once more. Her face softens with a smile and she touches his non-styled hair, now a wine-red colour, courtesy of Hyunah (‘’but it’d look great on you!’’). He lets her, smiling sheepishly. They hadn’t seen him in quite a long time, none of them. His oldest sister had joked about forgetting what he looked like and all of them had laughed a little nervously. He’s sure they missed some hair-colours, skipping through white and ash-blonde because Jongin never had any time to spare. It makes the guilt creep up on him again and he knows it shows in his face.

 

‘’How have you been Jongin?’’ his sister asks asks. It’s asked very softly, as if the answer might break him.

 

It reminds him of the way the therapist had talked, the one that had helped him through the process of getting clean and sober, speaking carefully as if the words itself might be of any harm to Jongin. Like he was frail and breakable. He’d felt like that, back then. He’d been confused and cold and alone. He doesn’t feel that now.

 

‘’I’ve been very confused,’’ he admits after a moment, ‘’I’ve been a lot of people, lately. But I’m not confused anymore. Not too much, at least.’’ There’s a thin smile, a bit unconvincing perhaps.

 

‘’I heard Chanyeol’s getting married.’’

 

Ah. The heart of the matter.

 

‘’I know.’’

 

‘’Are you still in love with him?’’

 

Her voice is soft but the words still cut deep into his skin. He can feel his heart sink and knows he doesn’t answer swiftly enough to be taken seriously.

 

‘’Of course not.’’

 

‘’Jongin-ah.’’

 

‘’I mean, don’t be ridiculous. I should never have told you that, you always look too deeply into these sorts of things. I wasn’t even in love with him, technically. I just said that back then because I was confused. Don’t overreact, honestly…’’

 

She gives him a very unimpressed look and though he easily towers over her, he feels incredibly small underneath her piercing gaze. He flinches and looks away to the road below them, focussing instead on the buzz of the cars speeding by.

 

‘’There’s this guy at my university…’’ she begins. His head snaps back to her immediately and holds his hands up in protest. Not this again.

 

‘’No way. No. I know where you’re going with this. I’m not dating one of your friends.’’

 

‘’What’s wrong with my friends?’’ Youngji snaps.

 

‘’Well for one thing, they’re _your_ friends so there must be something wrong with them.’’

 

It’s a childish remark but if his sister’s playing then so is he. She snorts but otherwise ignores the comment. Instead, she pulls her vest tighter and ruffles his hair, runs her hand through fried locks of red as if she’s petting a puppy.

 

‘’I already gave him your number. Too bad.’’

 

He moans loudly and opens his mouth to protest but his sister is faster.

 

‘’Please do all of us a favour and give it a try. Stop moping about Chanyeol, it’s pathetic. Just go on one date. Just one! I promise he’s a great kid.’’

 

Jongin snorts, shaking his head. He knows his sister is waiting for some sort of approval, is waiting for him to talk. He stays silent.

 

After a minute there’s a deep sigh and a pat on his back. She leaves the door open as she scrambles back inside the house but Jongin doesn’t move. He wishes he’d taken another cigarette down with him. His fingers itch for one.

 

‘’He’s not my friend by the way!’’ Youngji shouts from the kitchen as an afterthought.

 

‘’Fuck you!’’ Jongin replies.

 

*

 

The restaurant Jongin is supposed to meet his date (Taemin, he can hear his sister insist) is one of the big American fast food chains. His slick Mercedes parked out in front sticks out like a sore thumb, as does his get up: big black shades and a cap pulled over his head. He’s already been asked for an autograph by the waitress and he’s hyper aware of a group of school girls two tables away nervously giggling and sending glances his way every minute or so. It’s been twenty minutes of waiting, sipping his coke slowly and trying to look inconspicuous in the most conspicuous way ever. He decides that if this guy, _Taemin_ , doesn’t show up in another five minutes he’s leaving. His phone buzzes and he feels relieved when he reads an ‘’im almost there!!!’’. A moment later and there’s a young man rushing through the door, bundled in a thick coat and fluffy scarf and Jongin feels something in his chest swell with nervousness.

 

Apart from his hair, which is dyed a horrible yellow-ish blonde, he looks exactly like the picture his sister had shown him over the turkey at Christmas dinner. White skin, high cheekbones and plush lips, Jongin can’t say he doesn’t consider him to be handsome.

 

The man’s eyes scan the crowded restaurant and Jongin motions with his hand a little awkwardly. His date smiles and walks over to his table just as one of the school girls has gathered the confidence to stand up with a notebook clutched in her hand and starts to make powerful strides towards his table. It makes him want to punch the wall in embarrassment as she asks for a signature, stars in her eyes, the other man sitting down with a grin on his face. He takes his sunglasses off because really now, and quickly scribbles his name on the paper. ‘’With a heart, please,’’ so Jongin draws a heart. The girl is obviously satisfied, shooting thumbs up to her friends in the corner and the giggles go up in pitch when Jongin waves a little awkwardly in their direction. She leaves with a bounce in her step and Jongin reverts his attention to the man in front of him.

 

‘’Sorry about that.’’ he says and Taemin shakes his head.

 

‘’Nah man, it’s fine. Nice get up.’’ He motions towards the sunglasses lying on the plastic table with a grin and Jongin can feel himself blush.

 

‘’I don’t even know why I try. They always recognise you anyway.’’ He admits bitterly. As if on cue a couple comes up to the table and there’s a phone pushed into his personal space. Can his girlfriend please have a picture she’s such a big fan, the man asks, and Jongin nods. He scrunches his features into a smile as the girl presses her face against his and grits out a polite thank you as they leave. He knows the floods have opened when he sees more and more people with their phones up in his direction and there are gasps and excited whispers as the information of who’s sitting in the restaurant is spread. Jongin should have known it to be a bad idea to meet here but he had wanted it to work. The place had been decided on by Taemin. For once he’d wanted to sit in an ordinary restaurant like an ordinary guy, and eat an ordinary burger with Taemin.

 

He notices the way the other man’s shoulders seem to stiffen and how he looks around nervously, obviously aware of the whispers surrounding them.

 

‘’Just ignore them,’’ Jongin says with a smile he hopes is comforting as he scans the menu for anything under a thousand calories, ‘’they’ll lose interest after a while.’’ Taemin nods, utterly unconvinced, and then his eyes are on the menu again. His shoulders are still sharp and his jaw is set and Jongin wonders if it’s just the whispers that make him so silent or if he’s naturally shy because if so, this date is headed for disaster. Suddenly he wishes he never said yes to the whole thing. When the waitress comes back to take their orders there’s a camera in her hand and a questioning look in her eye and Jongin gives up.

 

‘’Could we maybe take a photo with all of the personnel? We’re all big fans.’’ She asks, eyelashes fluttering and Jongin can feel frustration building up in his veins.

 

‘’No,’’ he insists, ‘’I can’t. I just want to eat, please. I have given you my autograph and I have taken a picture with you. Now I would appreciate it if I could have the rest of my meal without being bothered. That goes not only for your staff but your customers as well.’’

 

Her eyes widen, obviously taken aback, and Jongin almost feels a little guilty before she scoffs and walks away tutting. He thinks he can hear her mutter ‘so stuck up’ under her breath but he pretends he doesn’t hear, can feel the frustration growing hotter underneath his skin. He looks up to find Taemin staring at him from over his menu and he smiles a little sheepishly, not knowing what to say.

 

‘’Being an idol seems great.’’ He jokes and Jongin snorts.

 

‘’Wait until you meet my sasaeng fans.’’ He points to the small crowd of people loitering by his car in the cold, a taxi Jongin knows will follow him when he leaves the restaurant a couple of feet away. Taemin turns around slowly but when he meets his eyes again there isn’t the pity he’d expected to find. It’s an expression he can’t quite read and Jongin finds himself intrigued. The menu is slammed down and Jongin lets out a breath when Taemin finally asks:

 

‘’Want to get out of here?’’

 

‘’I’d love to.’’

 

*

 

Taemin directs him to his dorm because Jongin doesn’t want to go to his, nor does he want to spend the time at his parents’, and as soon as the heavy door is opened Jongin is greeted by the stench of beer and weed. They walk up to Taemin’s room through hallways filled with empty cans and beer bottles and lined with thin walls from behind which Jongin can hear muffled voices. In front of Taemin’s door there’s a kettle filled with what once used to be chilli but is now mostly mould and Jongin thinks he’s never been in a place filthier than this. He loves it.

 

Taemin, thank God, doesn’t actually have to share his room with anyone else and Jongin easily bounces onto the bed as Taemin leaves to grab two beers from the kitchen. The room is a bit of an updated version of Jongin’s old bedroom, with posters of horror films and a Play Station 3 attached to an antique television. It’s mostly just small; there’s a bed, a closet and a desk yet Jongin likes it. He imagines there’s not much else one would need. When Taemin returns he throws the pile of clothes from his chair onto the desk and leans back as he takes his first swig. He burps, loudly, and Jongin can’t help but laugh.

 

‘’What?’’ Taemin’s grin is wide, ‘’you think you can do better than that?’’

 

Jongin throws his hands up in defence.

 

‘’Hey, I’m not saying anything. It was a little weak though.’’

 

‘’Oh yeah?’’

 

The burp-off (as Taemin announces it) that ensues has Jongin clutching his stomach with laughter and has them gulping down another beer or two. Taemin tells him about his major, explains to Jongin the course he’s taking right now, something difficult with a lot of maths Jongin doesn’t understand but nods along to anyway. He tells Jongin about his family and they bond over stories of siblings being irritating and generally unnecessary. Taemin likes horror films, the bloodier the better, and he gets excited when he talks about the latest film in a franchise Jongin vaguely remembers hearing about. He lies back onto the bed after his fourth beer and he can smell the other man on the sheets, something which feels oddly intimate and makes him feel a little shy. It’s ridiculous considering he’s not exactly a virgin but he can’t help the blush that spreads up his cheeks. Taemin sly smile tells Jongin he’s noticed and Jongin lets him pluck the beer out of his hands, tell him he’s probably had enough and crawl onto the bed to lie beside him.

 

It’s Jongin’s turn to talk now and he finds he’s not sure where to start. He tells Taemin of ballet and entering the company, skips over his debut with Sehun, ignores everything that could possibly relate to Joonmyeon and ends up talking about his latest single. He realises he doesn’t really have anything to tell him, doesn’t have any memories or fun anecdotes that don’t relate to his work and it makes him frown. Taemin prods him for more stories about himself, doesn’t seem to care about him being an idol and is not impressed in the slightest by his fame. It should probably unsettle him but it makes him feel all the more comfortable.

 

‘’Isn’t there something you like to do? Like, a hobby?’’ he asks. The bed is small so they have to lie extremely close and when Taemin talks his breath feels hot on his neck. His hands are awkwardly gripping his shirt to avoid them touching the other man’s thighs, not sure if that would be out of line. Jongin yawns, the dim light in the room making him a bit sleepy, and he shrugs.

 

‘’I don’t have a lot of free time. But when I was really young I used to play video games at the arcade. ‘spose I like that.’’

 

‘’I have the latest Play Station. We can play this game I have where you kill monsters. The graphics are great, you actually get to see the blood and shit.’’ Taemin says excitedly and Jongin chuckles. He turns his head to see the other resting his head on his hand, a wicked grin on his face.

 

‘’Do any of your interests not include graphic violence?’’ he jokes and thinks it’s ridiculous how easily he fits onto Taemin’s bed like this, how quickly he feels so comfortable around the other. Maybe that’s just the alcohol in his system. Maybe it’s something else.

 

Taemin leans in and Jongin closes his eyes as their lips touch. The kiss is soft and sweet, almost delicate, and it’s not what Jongin had expected at all. His hand finds the back of Taemin’s neck and he pulls the other closer. He can smell the alcohol on his breath when they pull away.

 

‘’Does that answer your question?’’ Taemin smiles and it’s so cheesy Jongin almost hits him for it. Instead, he lets his hand wander down to the small of his back and pulls him back in for another kiss. Taemin’s warm hand is resting on his hip, their chests pressed together and lips moving in tandem. There’s a hand creeping underneath his shirt and Jongin can’t help the soft whine that escapes his lips through their kisses. It’s been some time. Taemin’s lips curl into a smile and this time Jongin does hit him softly, flipping them over so he has the other man pinned underneath his arms instead.

 

‘’Mmhm. I swear I’m not usually this easy.’’  He mumbles before leaning in again and Taemin actually giggles.

 

‘’Whatever. Just take your shirt off.’’ Jongin thinks that’s a brilliant idea and does so faster than he would’ve thought possible. There’s a moment where his shirt gets stuck over his head and it’s more hilarious than sexy but then Taemin’s hands are roaming over his chest, warmth spreading over bare skin and it’s great.

 

The door bursts open suddenly and then there are three men standing in the door opening, shouting Taemin’s name, their faces falling when they realise there’s a half-naked man pinning their housemate to his bed.

 

‘’Oh shit – sorry! Carry on!’’ the tallest of them shouts and the door is slammed close again before Taemin even gets to sit up. Jongin looks at the other while they listen to the footsteps slowly fading, laughter mixing in with the deep voices of the people Jongin assumes are Taemin’s housemates and it’s a couple of seconds before they both burst out in laughter, Jongin letting himself fall onto Taemin’s chest. He rolls off when their laughter slowly fades, lets his hand run through blonde hair.

 

‘’Sorry,’’ Taemin chuckles, ‘’I forgot to lock my door.’’

 

There’s a pause before Taemin lets his hand return to Jongin’s sides, an eyebrow raised in a question.

 

‘’Carry on?’’

 

Jongin laughs as he shakes his head. He feels tired and a little more sober now and the realisation that there are other people here, people that might hear them and that know what they were about to do makes him feel rather uncomfortable. Taemin looks lovely; skinny white limbs and tousled hair. He’d like to kiss those plump lips again, bite down on the collarbone peeking out of his T-shirt, but perhaps he should take it slow for once. Maybe he won’t fuck up this time. Somehow, he really doesn’t want to.

 

‘’I think the moment’s gone.’’ He admits and lets the hand slide out of Taemin’s hair. His face falls but Taemin nods anyway.

 

‘’Yeah, right. Sorry man.’’

 

Jongin tells him it’s alright, lets Taemin help him get his shirt back on and his head falls onto the other’s shoulder as they sit leaning against the wall. There’s an awkward silence before Taemin speaks again.

 

‘’I still have that game…’’

 

*

 

 

Zombie Shooters XI: Ultimate Death turns out to be very fun in the end and Jongin enjoys meeting up with Taemin under the pretence of playing the game, being able to press his body close to the other man and to have their ‘accidental’ touches leading to interesting events indeed. It’s easy to talk to Taemin: the other is quiet, like Jongin, but never too quiet and when he speaks it’s soft and funny and charming. Taemin thinks he’s boring but Jongin thinks Taemin is the most interesting person in the world.

 

Taemin is studying something called astronomy which includes doing magical things with numbers and figures that relate to planets and stars in some way Jongin doesn’t quite get into his head but he thinks it’s fascinating anyway. He has a job at the local grocery store and Jongin thinks he looks adorable in the way the too large green shirt clinging to his thin frame. Taemin will hit him for that, hard, because he’s a manly man – not adorable at all. His obsession with everything bloody and gory goes back to when he was seven years old and his older brother first showed him ‘’Dawn of the Death’’ and he painted his face with ketchup to show the horrified teacher at school his aspiration was to become a zombie. He lives with three other men in a dump that’s known as the university dormitory, two of whom speak with a peculiar accent to their Korean and Jongin quickly learns that their names are Yixing and Tao and Minseok. They’re all right lads and like Taemin they pay no mind to the fact that Jongin is supposed to be a star. Instead Yixing will share a blunt with him, talking in soft Chinese with Tao as if Jongin’s not really there. When he passes by Minseok’s neat room (he doesn’t know how he does it – in this house) the other man will always smile at him from over his textbook and offer to make him a cup of tea.

 

Jongin’s schedule resumes after New Year’s Eve which means they barely get to meet but they make up for it in texts and phone calls and one time a rather revealing picture that made Jongin nearly choke on his jajangmyeon in the MuBank waiting room.

 

Taemin is nice and beautiful and funny but that doesn’t mean he forgets that easily.

 

His heart still speeds up when he thinks he’s spotted large ears peeking out of a red cap in the crowd or when the older man tells a joke, deep voice next to his ear, hands running through his hair. He wonders how much longer it’ll take. He’s getting quite tired of the ache in his heart.

 

He works through his schedules easily – now already a senior to a lot of juniors under him that come to him for advice and snacks – and the days pass so quickly he wonders if he isn’t wasting his time. All work and no play is what they say, but he tries not to think about that too much.

 

Six months is a short time when you don’t count the days and they’re over just like that.

 

Taemin turns twenty-three on a summer night, whipped cream smeared over his face and some disgusting mixed-drink, which is mostly vodka anyway, in his hand. There’s a ridiculous party hat perched on black hair and he looks so stupid and lovely Jongin can’t stop kissing him, really.

 

‘’Ugh!’’ Tao whines maturely from the corner of the room. Yixing looks content from where he’s blazing up next to the younger man and Minseok sits happily in his blue chair, round cheeks munching on his piece of pie. 

 

‘’Shut up, Tao, we all know you’re secretly gay.’’ Taemin shouts and giggles happily at his own joke, swaying in Jongin’s arms. Tao pulls a face.

 

‘’Alright, I think someone’s had a little too much to drink.’’ Jongin concludes when the other nearly stumbles over his own feet and Minseok laughs at his housemate, then nods. He puts his pie down and together they get Taemin up the stairs, ignoring his cries of being an adult that can walk on his own and he thanks Minseok when they finally manage to put Taemin on his bed. 

 

Taemin’s rolling back and forth, the party hat long fallen off on the stairs somewhere, and the whipped cream rubs off on the pillow. It makes it harder for Jongin to undo the buttons on his shirt and he demands the other to lie still, damn it. Taemin seems to think their closeness is an invitation, curls his arms around Jongin’s shoulders and presses kisses to his neck, lips sucking and biting on a particular sensitive spot under Jongin’s ear.

 

‘’Stop,’’ he protests weakly, ‘’Taemin, stop. I’m getting you into your pyjamas and into your bed because you’re drunk.’’

 

‘’Why don’t you get into my bed?’’ the other asks, voice deep but the words are slurred and Taemin misses when he wants to press a kiss to his jaw, instead ending up with his tongue inside Jongin’s ear. Jongin pushes him off harshly but it doesn’t stop him from wriggling about. He sighs and lets himself fall onto the bed with a heavy thud.

 

‘’I give up. Put your pyjamas on yourself.’’

 

‘’I can just sleep naked.’’

 

Jongin groans into the pillow.

 

‘’You’re the worst.’’

 

Taemin’s room is hot but his covers are nice and cool. The buzz of traffic and quiet chatter downstairs are like a lullaby to his ears and with his head pressed into the soft pillow and his eyes naturally falling closed Jongin finds himself almost falling asleep, catches himself just before everything fades to black. He lifts himself up groggily, rubbing his eyes. He softly shakes Taemin’s shoulder, calls out to him.

 

‘’Taeminnie. I’m leaving. I wish I could stay but I have to go. I’ll fall asleep if I don’t.’’ He declares and Taemin whines, pulling Jongin back down. His eyes are dark, half-lidded from sleep and something else Jongin suspects is lust. He looks damn beautiful like this; made to be ravaged. It takes all of his willpower to not just kiss the other man. A hand finds a strand of his hair, clumsily pulling on it a little too hard before settling on the back of his neck.

 

‘’Don’t go then. Stay. I don’t mind. Minseok won’t mind because he’s always in his room. Yixing won’t mind either because he’s nice and Tao will get over it after a week of complaining.’’

 

‘’What?’’ Jongin laughs, ‘’live here with you guys?’’

 

‘’Live with me.’’ Taemin offers. There’s alcohol on his breath but there’s sincerity in his voice. Jongin stares down at the other man. He might be drunk but that doesn’t take the meaning out of his words.

 

He’s never lived with anyone but his parents before. Not really – he’s lived in the dorms with Sehun and his manager but that’s not his house, not his home, it doesn’t count. Living with Taemin seems lovely. It would mean being alone with Taemin, no more stench of Yixing’s weed or the noise of Tao’s angry Chinese shouting to someone thousands of miles away on his phone. They wouldn’t have to meet up in restaurants or shady bars; Jongin wouldn’t have to be afraid of fans ruining their night. It would mean a place to call his own ( _their_ own) and now that he’s twenty-five he supposes it’s about time, really. No more locked doors or having to muffle their moans. He thinks no more awkward hand jobs in his car and feels his cheeks burn.

 

Underneath him, Taemin breaks out in a wicked grin.

 

‘’Are you thinking about it?’’ he asks and Jongin nods.

 

‘’It’s not a bad idea.’’

 

‘’I know. We can have sex everywhere, all day – ow! Don’t hit me!’’

 

‘’Go to sleep, you pervert.’’

 

Taemin grumbles before falling asleep quickly. When Jongin glances at him he finds his mouth hanging wide open, snoring loudly. Jongin stares up at the ceiling, finding himself unable to fall asleep because of the excitement in his veins and the thoughts circling his mind.

 

When morning comes, he’s still there.


	6. Lee Taemin (2/2)

*

 

Jongin buys himself a nice apartment in the Gangnam district of Seoul. It’s grand and spacious with Italian furniture and a large black leather couch facing the lights of the city; everything a boy his age would normally dream of having. He proudly shows his parents around and they ooh and aah at all the luxury and the glam. At the end of the evening he proposes to buy them a little something, perhaps a small house hidden away in the countryside, but they refuse with a smile on their faces and a pat on his cheeks like Jongin expected they would. His neighbours are nice and quiet; a married couple on one side, a business magnate he hardly ever sees on the other. Taemin visits two weeks after and though he feigns nonchalance, Jongin can see that even he is slightly impressed. They christen the apartment in their own way and slowly but surely Taemin’s stuff starts to move from the university dorm to Jongin’s closet, to his kitchen table, to his king-size bed. He doesn’t _officially_ move in. He never stops paying his fees to the university, doesn’t even give up his crappy job at the grocery store now a half-hour drive, but when Jongin steps through the front door the image of Taemin bundled up in a blanket with books lining the coffee table is one he expects to find.

 

Sometimes, Jongin will get home at a reasonable time and he’ll help Taemin with his studies, bring him cups of hot coffee (black, because Taemin is a university student and Jongin quickly learns university students need all the caffeine their body can possibly hold). He’ll stuff Taemin’s mouth with take-out Chinese and Taemin might let his head rest on Jongin’s shoulder for a while, late nights of studying making him vulnerable, and Jongin’s heart will pound three times faster even after all this time.

 

Sometimes, Jongin drags himself to the apartment on legs that can barely hold him upright, so tired his mind is spinning. Taemin will rush towards him and get him under the shower and into his pyjamas, tuck him into bed. Jongin will be too tired to thank the other man and hopes that his hand clutching the other’s tightly will do the trick instead.

 

Sometimes, it will all feel too familiar, too normal. Like when Jongin comes home to Taemin watching Korea’s Got Talent, a hand shooting up in greeting and Jongin grabs them both a beer from the fridge. They’ll watch in silence because at times like these there’s no need for words. Jongin might move over halfway through, might kiss him languidly, might press him into the couch and feel the other’s body writhing underneath him.

 

Sometimes, though, there will be people waiting for Jongin outside, cameras in their hands and strange ideas in their heads. They’ll shoot questions at him, at Taemin, or they’ll refuse to let him in at all, hands wandering too close so Jongin has to call security to be let inside his own home, has to get flowers delivered to the couple next door in an apology. The phone will ring in the middle of the night to wake him from his few hours of sleep and after the fifth warning Jongin will rip out the wire, uncaring if his parents or his manager might call. Sometimes they don’t give up, pound on his front door instead, screaming his name and demanding his presence.

 

Though still a bit frightening, Jongin’s gotten used to their taunting some time ago. Taemin obviously hasn’t.

 

The other man is a quiet one, a person that doesn’t like being in the spotlight, that doesn’t like loud voices and busy places. He hardly likes being noticed for something other than his academic talent and Jongin knows he suffers underneath the so-called love from his so-called fans. No matter how much he might try to hide it, Jongin catches the fear in his eyes when he accidentally opens a letter containing some kind of threat, sees how he crawls deep underneath the covers when they’re at his doorstep again, voices echoing likes ghosts in the hallway. Taemin doesn’t care about Jongin’s fame, but he does suffer.

 

‘’They’ll go away. I called security.’’ Jongin offers one night when it’s come to that again, and the notion of feeling utterly useless smacks him across the face.

 

Taemin nods at the curtain-covered windows from where’s he’s sitting at the edge of the bed. He doesn’t look at Jongin. His back is arched and his head hangs down limply. Right now, Jongin thinks, the other man is the picture of fear. Fear that was brought on because of him. It makes Jongin feel as if he’s been punched in the gut about a thousand times over and he wants nothing more than to take that fear away. He wishes he could but the truth is that he can’t. He’s not a superhero; he’s only a pop singer.

 

‘’Hey,’’ Jongin says softly, letting his knees fall onto the mattress, one hand caressing Taemin’s shoulder in a manner he hopes is comforting, ‘’they’ll leave. You wanna go back to sleep?’’

 

They have to sleep. Jongin knows Taemin’s got an exam first thing in the morning, one he _has_ to pass, and he’ll blame himself if the other doesn’t make it.

 

When the dark-haired man doesn’t reply he lets his arms circle around Taemin’s waist, nuzzles his face into the other’s back so black hair tickles his face. Taemin nods after a moment, arms struggling to get out of Jongin’s embrace. He walks over to the other side of the bed without a word, and then pulls the dark covers over his body up to his face, back towards Jongin. He switches off the bedside lamp, leaving the other in darkness.

 

Jongin sighs deeply; hands rubbing his too-tired eyes that he imagines must be red with exhaustion. He lies himself down next to the tiny figure outlined underneath the covers, strokes black hair peeking out underneath the blanket as a final apology.

 

‘’Good night.’’ He whispers. There comes no answer.

 

When he leaves for his schedule two hours later the voices at his door have gone but Taemin is still obviously awake underneath the covers, eyes following Jongin around the room.

 

 

*

 

Chanyeol breaks up with Yoona after a year and a half of dating as though they were going to get married, nearly attached by the hip. Jongin’s pretty sure Chanyeol was anticipating their marriage more than anything else. He’s absolutely devastated. It’s the first time Jongin has ever seen him like this and for all his jealousy he finds absolutely no pleasure in the fact that they’ve broken up. As Chanyeol’s acclaimed Best Friend it’s his job to take him out of the mess that is now _his_ apartment again, never again _ours_ , and get some soju in his system. Numb that pain a bit. It’s a sad little affair. They can’t even go to a proper restaurant because Jongin doesn’t want to risk being disturbed so they’re forced to go to his place instead. It feels oddly personal to show Chanyeol the apartment he now shares with Taemin and he spends the entire journey there wondering how he’s going to introduce him, what he should say and what he should call him. They have been dating for quite a while now (he bitterly remembers how against that first date he’d been back then) but now they’re living together all of a sudden and that makes it seem more serious than ‘boyfriends’. ‘Partners’ feels out of place too – and, well, he’s just not sure what’s happening between them, really. Chanyeol having a mental breakdown is not a great occasion to ponder the gravity of his relationship. When they finally arrive at his apartment, Taemin’s gone and when Jongin goes to grab the soju from the fridge there’s a note that says he’s back at the dorms to celebrate Yixing’s birthday won’t be home till morning bye, which means he doesn’t have to say anything at all.

 

‘’Your place is really nice,’’ Chanyeol bawls around a piece of chicken and Jongin thanks him despite the comment being entirely out of place between the story of the Horrendous Evening and That Paris Holiday When Chanyeol Proposed.

 

‘’I’m really, really sorry. Honest.’’ Jongin says in an effort to be comforting and it makes Chanyeol burst out into tears again. He crawls between Jongin’s arms, grabbing onto his shirt like a baby and the difference between their heights makes it more than awkward, Jongin’s arms too short to fit comfortably behind Chanyeol’s broad shoulders. He pats his back soothingly, tells him it’s not his fault and that these things happen.

 

‘’It’s fucked up but you’re not to blame,’’ he begins, ‘’She wasn’t who you thought she was, is all.’’

 

‘’Yes, but how could she?’’ Chanyeol exclaims, voice booming so loudly Jongin’s afraid the neighbours might hear. He pressed a finger to his mouth, tries to hush the other man.

 

‘’There, there. Let’s have another shot, okay?’’ Jongin declares, struggling to push another glass of soju into Chanyeol’s hands. The other man momentarily lets go of his death-grip on Jongin to gulp the liquour down in one go, then slams the glass down on the table only to fill it again, sloppily spilling soju all over the table. Jongin is only glad to let him be like this and after a ludicrous amount of alcohol Chanyeol actually seems to have calmed down a bit, wide eyes staring at his hands as if there he might find the meaning of his life again.

 

‘’I cried for three weeks straight,’’ he sniffles pathetically before dramatically burying his face in his hands again, a broken wail escaping his mouth. ‘’I loved her so fucking much!’’ he cries and Jongin sighs, lets an arm slide around those broad shoulders again.

 

‘’Alright. There, there. Come now.’’ He tries awkwardly.

 

It takes another bottle for Chanyeol to stop crying, despair slowly merging into anger as he starts to curse everything about his ex-fiancé’s existence. Jongin lets him ramble on because it’s easier that way and he doesn’t really have any tips for Chanyeol because he’s never had a fiancé that ran away with a hotshot Chinese banker about ten times more attractive and at least twenty years older than him. At the end, Chanyeol seems to be regaining some of his confidence. His back straightens and his voice is clearer even through all the alcohol. Jongin thinks he might go home soon. He feels relieved at the thought.

 

‘’I mean, it’s not my fault, right? She was wrong. So why am I sad? I don’t give a shit about her.’’ Chanyeol announces, hands spread wide on his thighs, glancing at Jongin for approval. Jongin nods enthusiastically as he pats the other man on the back, happy Chanyeol’s finally cheered up a bit.

 

‘’That’s right. She doesn’t deserve your concern –‘’

 

‘’In fact, I should show her how fine I’m with this.’’

 

‘’Exactly, keep your head up –‘’

 

‘’I should cheat as well!’’

 

‘’What? No, that’s not – ‘’

 

Jongin’s would explain how it’s impossible to cheat on somebody who’s left you but Chanyeol’s already standing up, hat perched over messy red hair matching his tear-ridden eyes, already shrugging on his coat. He looks an absolute mess and Jongin stopped drinking halfway through but the room still spins when he gets up too quickly. He can’t even begin to comprehend how drunk Chanyeol must be. He roughly grabs him by his shoulders, keeping him in place.

 

‘’I don’t know where you want to go but I’m not letting you go out like this. You’re freaking pissed and I’m not letting you do something stupid and get yourself in trouble. I’m too fucking tired to deal with cleaning up your mess, alright?’’ He says sternly, hoping Chanyeol won’t resist because he’s a lot shorter and a lot less strong and if Chanyeol wants to he can easily walk out of here.

 

There’s a moment where his hands grab onto Jongin’s arms and Jongin believes Chanyeol’s about to wrestle himself out of his hold but the taller man keeps still. An odd look that Jongin can’t read rests on his face and then he’s staring down at Jongin instead.

 

‘’You’re gay, right?’’ he asks and Jongin pulls a face.

 

‘’What? I mean, yeah, but why –‘’

 

‘’So you’re basically like a woman, right?’’ he concludes with a furrow of the brows and it sparks irritation in Jongin.

 

‘’No. I’m a guy. I’m as much like a woman as a fish with chlamydia.’’

 

‘’Fish can’t get STDS.’’ Chanyeol’s quick to point out.

 

‘’Exactly.’’ Jongin deadpans.

 

Chanyeol only curls his lip at that, unimpressed, and Jongin rolls his eyes with actual irritation then. He lets go of his grip on Chanyeol, wondering why he even wanted to protect the moron in the first place.

 

He makes to clean up the mess still resting on the table before he’s roughly pulled around by his arm. Two hands cup his face and then Chanyeol’s pressing his lips against Jongin’s hard. It happens in less than a moment and it takes a couple of seconds for his alcohol-ridden brain to catch up with what’s happening, but Chanyeol doesn’t move away, starts to move his lips instead. His heartbeat is beating faster before his mind has ever caught up and as if in a reflex Jongin kisses back immediately. There’s a tongue on his bottom lip and he lets Chanyeol lick into his mouth, moves into the touch. His arms are shaking as he lets them curl themselves around Chanyeol’s neck.

 

It’s absurd and he can hardly believe it is happening. The man kissing him is undeniably Chanyeol; he recognises the feel of his warm hand sliding through his hair, the deep timbre of his voice as breathy sighs fall from red lips he’s dreamed of kissing for too long, but it’s too much like a dream for him to believe it’s true. Guilt gnaws at him and somewhere far away his mind screams at him that he shouldn’t be letting this happen. It’s rather inconvenient right now, and he finds he easily ignores it.

 

Chanyeol pulls away and his eye falls on one of Taemin’s math books on the dining table. He imagines how Taemin’s brows furrow tightly together when he studies all the numbers and the graphs, how Jongin would joke how ugly he looks like that and how Taemin would slap him for that, a grin on his face. It’s the last thing he wants to think of right now, so he pulls Chanyeol flush against him, closes his eyes into the kiss.

 

When he pulls back Chanyeol’s eyes are glazed over with lust and wide with excitement. Both of their chests are heaving with their ragged breathing and they stare at each other intensely. Then Chanyeol’s hands move down to his shoulders and there’s a grin on his face.

 

‘’You’re right. You’re not like a woman.’’ He chuckles and he’s about to lean in again before Jongin stops him.

 

‘’I’m seeing someone,’’ he blurts out and Chanyeol’s eyes widen. His mouth opens then closes again, obviously taken aback. He stares at Jongin and embarrassment creeps up on Jongin. He wishes he could take the words back. Internally he curses himself for being such a fucking goody two-shoes even when drunk. Chanyeol doesn’t seem to mind so much for his lips slide into a wicked grin and he’s pushing Jongin against the wall before eagerly licking into his mouth again.

 

‘’It’ll be our secret, then.’’ He sing-songs, voice next to Jongin’s ear just like all those other times before except it’s so different now – and he kisses Chanyeol like there’s nothing else in the world, hungry and never wanting anything more. He wonders dimly if Chanyeol has always known, unlike what he’d believed. Maybe the other man is more attentive than Jongin had thought him to be. Maybe someone told him; maybe Hyunah let it slip accidently. None of that matters now and he pushes all thoughts away, focusing instead on the way that Chanyeol’s hand is sliding underneath his shirt and the other one is popping open the buttons on the front.

 

He lets Chanyeol fuck him on the bed that has Taemin’s pyjamas hidden underneath one of the pillows, arches into every touch and savours every moment. In the end, it’s not quite like he imagined it. There’s no love; it’s rough and it’s quick and it’s over too fast. Chanyeol leaves immediately after, not even taking the time for a quick shower.

 

They don’t mention it again and things return to normal after. Jongin’s not sure whether Chanyeol even remembers it and he’s too afraid to breach the subject. If Chanyeol does remember, he doesn’t let on.

 

Just a drunken fuck.

 

Somehow, it makes the guilt feel all the more real.

 

*

Taemin passes his exam, barely, but he does pass and when Jongin hears he’s delighted because that means Taemin can properly start his fourth year at uni, can start working on his master’s degree. He finally gives up his job at the store because masters means he won’t have the time, but also because he’s moving in with Jongin, officially, and that means he won’t need money to pay for his rackety room anymore. Tao, Yixing and Minseok throw a goodbye-party for him and though Jongin isn’t able to go it’s fun because there’s a lot of booze and good music. At the end of the night Tao cries like a baby. They all laugh at him and Taemin has to promise they’ll keep in touch, something he gladly does.

 

Jongin gets his first film role; a nice side-character that works in a flower shop, best friend of the lead in the romantic comedy of this summer. He gets all the help he needs from the more advanced actors on set, something he’s thankful for (something he makes sure to repeat in interviews). Making a film takes time and his schedule fills up again where it had been slacking these days, though his manager says to think nothing of that. His name sells and the film does great. Even the critics are quite friendly with him, a bitter review by some burned-out middle-aged man stirring the public up a bit, but nothing that could ruin his reputation or his success. It’s something he’s wanted for some time now, acting, and the amazing reception makes up for all the nights he couldn’t sleep and the pills he had to take to calm his nerves.

 

He feels great. He feels proud, powerful.

 

Getting off set one afternoon he comes home to a bunch of kids he doesn’t recognise sitting around the house. He’s a bit surprised; usually Taemin tells him when people are coming round. Neither of them have that many people they hang out with and they like to be acquainted with each other’s friends. That’s why he easily hangs up his coat and walks up to them, expecting to be introduced. One of the girls’ mouths falls open and she blinks up at him in disbelief.

 

‘’You’re!’’ she starts, pointing, ‘’you’re Kim Jongin!’’

 

‘’Oh my God, Taemin, you didn’t tell us it was _that_ Kim Jongin!’’ another person pipes up and Jongin laughs at their wide-eyed expressions. He goes to sit down next to Taemin, feeling a bit embarrassed at the attention he’s receiving, and waits until Taemin tells him who all these people are. Taemin doesn’t open his mouth. There’s an odd expression on his face; it’s a polite smile Jongin knows he only uses when he’s flustered or irritated. It’s normally only used when talking about this dick of a professor he has, or when complaining about his mother trying to set him up for another blind date. It’s disconcerting seeing it now and he wants to ask if there’s something wrong but on the other edge of the couch a blonde girl is announcing herself to be Krystal and the rest of the group laughs at the girl’s enthusiasm. The others take turns in introducing themselves and then the questions start flying at him; what is it like being a pop star, how do you practice, do you have a new record coming out, will you sign my textbook?

 

He forgets all about it until they’re having diner later that day. Taemin shovels the food into his mouth, avoiding Jongin’s attempt at small talk and every time he puts his spoon down it’s with a loud clang. His shoulders are tense and his jaw is set. After a particularly snappy remark Jongin’s done. He puts his chopsticks down and folds his hands underneath his chin, pointedly looking at Taemin. Though Jongin knows he must feel his gaze on him, the other doesn’t react until he shoves the kimchi out of his reach and he finally gets a glare.

 

‘’What the fuck is wrong with you today?’’ he demands, ‘’you’ve had a stick up your ass all afternoon!’’

 

Instead of answering, Taemin slides his chair over to the other side of the table, chopsticks again attacking the kimchi that had been placed there by Jongin. It’s a childish gesture, one that irritates Jongin immensely and his voice comes out much louder than he’d expected when he slams the table with his hand and shouts:

 

‘’Hey! Are you not talking or what?’’

 

It takes Jongin roughly snatching the chopsticks out of his hands for Taemin to stop eating and look at him. He leans backwards in his chair, hands nonchalantly propped up on his belly.

 

‘’You want to talk?’’ he says, ‘’let’s talk.’’

 

‘’Okay. Let’s start with you explaining why you’re being such a bitch.’’ Jongin dares and it earns him a snort.

 

‘’I’m being a bitch?’’

 

‘’Yeah, you are.’’

 

‘’In what ways?’’

 

‘’Look: I come home, you’ve got some friends here. Great. That’s great, yeah? I was dead tired but I think come on Jongin, let’s be social. I sit down with your friends, you look as if someone’s pissed in your soup. I talk with them, answer all of their questions and then they leave. You don’t say anything to me. I think: maybe he’s had a rough day. Maybe you need some time to cool off. But you’ve been acting like this all day now and I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. Don’t take it out on me. Did something happen or what?’’

 

‘’Nothing happened.’’ Taemin says calmly, cold eyes challenging. Jongin thinks he’s going to rip out his hair soon.

 

‘’Then _what_?’’ he snaps. There’s a moment of hesitation where Taemin opens his mouth to say something then thinks the better of it. His arms fall away from his belly and he uses one of them to ruffle his hair. There’s a deep sigh before he musters the courage to speak again.

 

‘’It’s just… you’re going to be angry if I say it.’’ he mutters. It sounds like something Jongin would tell his parents when he was eight and accidentally lost something. It’s innocent and entirely out of place in this conversation and it makes Jongin feel guilty about speaking so sternly earlier.

 

‘’I won’t be angry,’’ he assures the black-haired man, ‘’we’re both adults here. I mean, if there’s something that’s bothering you, I won’t be angry.’’

 

The tone of his voice is steady and Jongin knows the other man hears the honesty in his voice. It seems to comfort him and it’s with a slight shift in his chair that he finally admits his troubles. He tells Jongin it’s awkward when others first meet him; this man that carries something out of the ordinary with his name. It’s uncomfortable for him to see his friends’ attention shift towards Jongin, and he doesn’t know how to answer the questions they shoot at him afterwards.

 

‘’I’m not part of that life,’’ he murmurs, voice having gone quiet some time ago, ‘’I don’t work in show business. I wouldn’t want to. So when people meet you… I don’t want people to like me because they know I live with you.’’

 

He tells Jongin how he the flashes of the paparazzo’s cameras scare him when they’re driving together and how he can’t sleep when he hears voices outside their front door, or is simply aware of their presence. How he hates the parties he has to attend with Jongin where people photograph him and reporters come up to ask him questions he knows he isn’t allowed to answer. How he wants to be open about their relationship, how he doesn’t want to introduce himself as his friend anymore. It’s what Jongin already knew; but it makes his heart sink nonetheless.

 

‘’Maybe,’’ Taemin confesses, now barely a whisper, ‘’maybe I don’t want to be with Kim Kai.’’

 

Which is hard for Jongin to hear because he is Kim Kai and he is in love with Lee Taemin. The other man looks up at him through his eyelashes and Jongin realises through the pounding in his ears that it’s his turn to speak. There’s a lump in his throat and he’s afraid that when he opens his mouth, what will come out will be a sob rather than something that can take all of Taemin’s doubts away.

 

‘’Sorry. I like you a lot –‘’

 

‘’Then why isn’t that enough?’’ Jongin hastily interrupts, ‘’you knew about my job when we first met. You like me and I like you. A lot. We understand each other –‘’

 

‘’But we don’t!’’ Taemin objects, ‘’I don’t understand the way you live. You don’t know what I do all day – you do _theoretically_ , but not really. Be honest. You don’t understand what it’s like to study through the night and still fail that exam you needed to pass so badly. You have never wasted an entire day of lectures playing videogames with your friends. I won’t ever understand what it must be like you to have the pressure to perform on stage. I don’t know what you do when you go to your company and what it means when you have to practice. That’s all very well and I could overcome that – but I want someone who I can talk to about uni and who I can take out to clubs. Someone who I can walk with on the streets like normal couples do. You’re always away, working. No matter how many phone calls I make, you feel too far. Our lives are different and that’s not going to change anytime soon. They are too different. This,’’ he notes and motions with his hands to their surroundings, ‘’this isn’t normal for someone our age. I like you so much but I – I can’t live like this, Jongin. I just can’t. I’m so sorry.’’

 

Jongin thinks he might hear his heart breaking.

 

‘’Oh,’’ he says. There are tears blurring his vision that he tries to blink away. He can’t move; he’s afraid he’ll burst into tears. He thinks of a thousand things he might say, of ways to plead the other man to stay. Because he doesn’t want Taemin to go. He wants to be able to hear his cheesy jokes and his off-tune singing in the shower. Wants to wake up next to his warm body, to stroke his face and run his hands through black hair. There was this restaurant in Tokyo that he’d really wanted to take him to because the waiters would come and sing songs for you and Taemin would have loved that, would have laughed all night and he loved to see Taemin laugh. He was going to ask whether Taemin wanted to meet his family sometime soon because this felt right and if Taemin wanted to, too, they could really be something. Life without Taemin seems unimaginable. They had fit together so easily, surely they could not break just as easily?

 

The other man doesn’t move. Jongin doesn’t know what he’s thinking, if he’s as afraid as he feels right now. The lack of emotion the other shows after the brutal stab to Jongin’s heart makes him feel angered and it’s without thinking that he spits it out.

 

‘’I cheated on you,’’ he says.

 

Something flashes in Taemin’s eyes upon realizing the meaning of the words and ah, there it finally is. Hurt. He lunges over the table to snatch Jongin’s white shirt. For a moment it seems he’s going to hit him, clenched fist ready in the air, before the anger seems to leave his body and he lets go of the other man. He stomps out of the apartment, not bothering to grab his coat. As the door closes behind him, Jongin hears the squealing of the fans outside.

 

When he comes home from China a week later, all that is left of Taemin is an old horror flick stuck in the DVD player. As the credits roll, the cheerful music seems to mock him.

 

*

 

Taemin is adulthood mixed in with childlike innocence. Long, thin legs, a pretty face with a grave expression. Living together and laughing together. Night of bloody games and bloody movies, of passion and pounding hearts. Taemin is where he’d found himself and where he’d expected to go on.

 

Taemin is the one he regrets.

 


	7. Wu Yifan (1/4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear to god im working towards a happy ending but first, have some more angst \o/

 

Work piles up like it always does, commercials and variety shows and a special Christmas single on the way. It’s never ending and it doesn’t leave Jongin any time to ponder on his feelings. Where he might have found that comforting in the past, he finds the burden on his shoulder feel heavier each day, the aching in his heart stronger every moment. He wants to lock himself away somewhere, pathetically, where he can just cry and pity himself until the grey clouds of his mind disappear. Every show he does seems less exciting, less interesting. The songs he gets are all the same, mind-numbing pop with a catchy tune, and he’s grown out of the innocent-guy-next-door-shtick long ago. His bones ache from pure exhaustion with every dance move he tries so desperately to correct and there’s definitely something wrong with his waist that needs medical attention.

 

He’s twenty-eight years of age but feels, physically and mentally, at least twice as old. Perhaps it’s normal to feel like this, he thinks, with the number ‘30’ looming in the distance, but perhaps he’s being too negative about things. Perhaps it’s just him that’s so gloomy all the time. But then, his heart has been broken.

 

Chanyeol is still his hairdresser, greeting him every morning with a row of bared white teeth, stupid hip-hop hat on his head, coming at him with a can of hairspray. Each day, the dull ache is still there in his chest when he gazes back at the other man reflected in the mirror. At the same time, the yearning to be with him becomes less. He’s surprised to be quite happy with the way things are now, with the distance that they have created. It’s safe. Though on the surface the other remains as friendly as he’s always been, Jongin doesn’t find himself inside Chanyeol’s apartment anymore. He doesn’t invite Chanyeol either. After some time he finds that maybe, he’s only in love with the idea of being with Chanyeol, rather than being in love with the man himself. They meet less and less, and somewhere along the way that one night turns into a memory, just as his love fades away.

 

It’s different with Taemin. Jongin thinks that perhaps, he’s been too naïve. Our lives are too different, Taemin had said, and it rings in Jongin’s ears, cuts into his heart like a knife. It’s true. Jongin’s life is not like others’, it isn’t _normal_. Twenty-eight years old and he doesn’t know a thing about the world. He’s never had first dates in the cinema, never met anyone in a club just to get off with them in the back, hasn’t had a cramped room on a campus filled with people just like him, discussing poetry and politics and all the other things Jongin doesn’t know shit about because all his years going to school had been for this. To become Kim Kai, the golden boy.

 

Maybe that had been the reason he’d been so hopeful with Taemin. Too hopeful. Because he had been, truly. He’d thought about them being together for years. Taemin was going to be a successful scientist and make people happy with his inventions, and Jongin could make people happy with his songs. They could make the entire nation happy with their combined efforts of happiness-making. He would take Taemin to meet his family and they would be delighted, even his parents, because Taemin is a wonderful man and you can’t help but love him and his stupid jokes and the way he becomes so serious when talking about things he’s passionate about. On other days, they could just play video games and eat some Chinese takeout, maybe make-out a bit, maybe do something more a bit. It didn’t really matter, as long as Taemin would have been there, because that was all he needed to be happy. They could grow old and be bitter, annoying grandpas together, sway back and forth in their rocking chairs somewhere in a little house hidden away in the countryside.

 

He’d never even contemplated the possibility of it all breaking down. There wasn’t supposed to be an ending to their story.

 

It’s unexpected, and it cuts.

 

*

 

Christmas rolls around again, happy songs and bright lights, smiles plastered on every bill board and television screen around him, only stopping to make way for some depressing ad blackmailing people into donating to a good cause because it’s Christmas and that’s when you care about others. All Jongin feels is the wind thwacking his face and the cold of the snow falling all around him, dampening his coat and his hair. Christmas Eve and he’s invited to his parents’ house, a bottle of wine hidden underneath his coat. As soon as the door is opened by his oldest sister, he’s attacked by a frilly white dress and two pigtails hugging his legs.

 

‘’Whoa there, Suhyun!’’ he laughs, picking up the little girl and swinging her around, ‘’are you happy to see your uncle?’’ Suhyun nods excitedly, tells him he’s missed him ‘’thiiiis much!’’ as she spreads her arms wide to show _just_ how much.

 

His oldest sister rolls her eyes at the scene as she accepts the wine bottle from under his coat, but Jongin recognises the smile on her face as nothing but pure parental pride.

 

The evening plays out as it always does; first a little chat over some tea to catch up with the family, then the wine and the games are brought out, only to end with dinner.

 

‘’That was delicious, miss Kim.’’ His brother-in-law says and his mother giggles shyly as more people join in, add to the compliment. Her and his oldest sister get up from their seats and start clearing the plates. From the corner of his eye he sees that on the other side of the table his father has already brought out the soju. Fearing the obligatory conversation between the men of the family that he knows is sure to follow, Jongin quickly runs off with the excuse of needing a cigarette, which is partly true anyway. It’s awfully cold outside and his fingers quickly turn pink from the cool but it’s comforting all the same. There’s barely any traffic because everyone’s hidden away in their homes or in restaurants, each celebrating Christmas in their own way. Jongin can see them, similar to their family, bundled together around the dinner table from beyond the yellow light of the large flat opposite. Their silhouettes move excitedly, obviously giddy with laughter, and he dimly wonders what is going on behind those walls. The entire city is like this, windows behind which lives are lived and secrets he’ll never know are told, a play unfolding before the eyes of whoever wants to watch. The harsh wind from earlier that evening has settled. It’s calm. Serene, almost. The world looks beautiful like this, he decides.

 

‘’Those things are still going to kill you,’’ a voice pipes up and Jongin doesn’t even make the effort of turning around anymore, flips off his sister with his other hand. She barks out a laugh before joining him on the balcony, wipes some snow away to sit on the railing. It gets her a glare from the younger man. He doesn’t say it, but it’s implied. She gestures towards his cigarette and takes it when it’s handed out to her, then scrunches up her face at the first drag.

 

‘’Blegh,’’ she shudders and Jongin chuckles when she hands it back to him, ‘’nope. Definitely stopped smoking.’’ She concludes, sticking her arms underneath her armpits in an effort to keep them warm. She cranes her head over her shoulder to look at the snow still falling, and remarks how people won’t be able to get home if it keeps going. There’s a minute where they stay like that in silence, Jongin leisurely smoking his cigarette and Youngji kicking her legs like a kid before she starts to speak again.

 

‘’Did you go out because you wanted to avoid dad’s manly man talk?’’ she asks and laughs when the irritated look she receives from her younger brother tells her all she needs to know.

 

‘’I don’t think I can hear him talk about that Jessica-girl one more time. Has subtlety gone out of fashion? ‘She’s such a sweet girl’!’’ he mimics in his father’s voice and his sister does laugh at that.

 

‘’You know he only does that because he cares, though. He wants you to be happy. As far as mom and dad are concerned, you haven’t been in a relationship, _ever_.’’

 

‘’Yeah, well, she’s not my type.’’ Jongin spits and it comes out more bitterly than he wished. It brings a sorry look on his sister’s face and for once, he quite welcomes her pity. He’s tired from last night’s (or rather, that morning’s) Music Bank recording and he still feels pretty blue about what has happened. Christmas hasn’t changed that, nor has the god-awful sweater his mother had so sweetly knitted for him.

 

‘’I heard you and Taemin broke up,’’ his sister inquires, ‘’is it true?’’

 

Not messing around, like always, he thinks. He shrugs around a newly-lit cigarette, then gives a curt nod.

 

‘’Yeah. He broke up with me though, so. It wasn’t ‘me and Taemin’ rather than just Taemin.’’

 

His sister hops off the railing, arms closing around his back in an embrace. She pats his shoulders softly, soothingly, like she used to when she was still a couple of inches taller than him and he’d have to crane his neck to talk to her. Jongin lets her, for once quite content with getting babied.

 

‘’I’m so sorry, Jongin. It must be hard for you.’’ she says, leaning back to hold him by his hands instead. It’s hard to avoid her gaze this way and Jongin wishes she hadn’t moved away, was quite happy to feel the warmth of her embrace as well. It’s impossible to explain just how difficult it is, to put the pain he feels into words, so he tries to avoid the subject as best as he can.

 

‘’I’m fine,’’ he sniffs, ‘’actually, I – I was wrong. You shouldn’t pity me.’’

 

‘’Nonsense! What on earth do you mean?’’ his sister asks, startled.

 

There’s a moment of hesitation. Jongin’s face scrunches up and he pulls his sister’s hands away. The cigarette he flicks into the snow.

 

‘’I cheated on him –‘’

 

‘’Christ, Jongin!’’ his sister exclaims almost immediately, indignant.

 

‘’- with Chanyeol.’’

 

She pauses then, mouth hanging open in shock. Her eyes are wide and filled with bewilderment. He avoids her gaze, cheeks hot with embarrassment, though there’s a certain sort of relief in finally having told someone. For seconds, she’s staring at him, obviously trying to figure out what to say but not finding the right words.

 

‘’Chanyeol?’’ she starts, ‘’but I thought Chanyeol wasn’t…’’

 

‘’He’s not. We… we were very drunk. I don’t think he remembers it.’’

 

‘’You haven’t spoken about it?’’

 

‘’No, sis, we haven’t spoken about it.’’ Jongin snaps, irritated. His sister huffs with indignation and he apologises fort being so curt, feeling entirely too stupid. If it were him, he wouldn’t have put up with his attitude. He wouldn’t even bother listening to his problems in the first place, if he were honest. But then his sister had always been the kinder one; more mellow.

 

‘’I don’t think I understand how relationships are supposed to work,’’ he admits. It makes her chuckle lightly, the tension breaking.

 

‘’Nobody understands how relationships work, Jongin. Not a single person on this earth.’’

 

‘’I know. But why do I always fuck it up? I mean, look – you have someone, sis has someone… I’m getting so old already. The last thing I want to do right now is date someone, but I’m afraid of ending up alone, you know?’’

 

‘’Careful now, I’m older than you are,’’ she jokes, sends a cheeky smile towards him. There’s a deep sigh before she continues.

 

‘’I can’t lie. You’ve gotten yourself in quite the situation. What you did was wrong, Jongin. Even if you loved Chanyeol so much, which I know you do, you chose to live with Taemin and he was your partner. You shouldn’t have done that.’’

 

‘’Is the lecture over now?’’ Jongin mutters. He receives a slap on the back for his sass, and another one he supposes is for his promiscuity.

 

‘’It doesn’t matter, anyway. We’re never getting back together. He made that much clear.’’

 

It’s the truth. He’s known for a long time, can’t count the amount of times he’s played those words of Taemin over and over in his head. Nevertheless, actually saying it out loud still makes it feel more real, and it makes his chest ache. The feeling must show on his face, for his sister clasps one of his hands in her palm, strokes it reassuringly with her thumb.

 

‘’It’s all very well you telling me this, Jongin, but don’t you think you need someone else to help you with this? I can only ever do so much,’’ his sister says. There’s a slight pause, and when she continues her voice is softer than before, the kind she only uses when saying something she knows he won’t like, ‘’I think, maybe, you haven’t been very happy lately. You aren’t smiling like you used to and you don’t joke around with me or any of the kids. I miss that and I think you miss it too. I feel like it might be a good idea if you contacted that therapist again. He knows more than I do. Didn’t he help you really well when you were in a dark place after, you know, the thing with Joonmyeon?’’

 

She’s right, of course, but admitting that would go against the rules of sister-brother bonding, so he only shrugs. A sudden gush of wind leaves him shivering and they both chuckle slightly, their breath fogging up in the night air. His hand is still in hers when Suhyun comes skipping over to call them for pudding, giving them an odd look.

 

‘’It’s too cold outside,’’ she notes, ‘’you should come inside. It’s warm inside.’’

 

After they’ve gone inside, she demands Youngji to read her The Little Prince, five times in a row. Jongin leaves before dessert.

 

*

 

He doesn’t go to the therapist. It’s too confronting and he doesn’t want to share these things with the man, kind as he is. The truth of the matter is there’s nothing he would be able to do to take his pain away; heartbreak only heals with time. That’s one lesson he’s learned at least.

 

He tries to resist, he honestly does, but working in the entertainment industry doesn’t help the temptation, and when Luhan offers him a line backstage at the Givenchy party, it’s just as good as he remembers. Everything’s brilliant when you’re coked-up. The people are kind and the world seems so fresh and inviting; as if it had all just come into existence. He knows what he’s doing is wrong but he tells himself it’s okay, he’s stopped before and he can stop again if he wants. Right now, he needs some comfort, and what’s easier than snorting a bit of coke to light the fire in his veins? It’s like a medicine, he tells himself, and that’s it.

 

The come down is all the worse for it, throbbing headaches and heart-wrenching sadness rushing over him like a wave. It’s the worst because not only does the world seem bleak and uninviting in the come down, now there’s also a silence that’s deafening to his ears, one that seems to scream at him: you are alone.

 

His bedroom ceiling is a spotless white, the grey lights hidden in a neat work of architecture. As he stares, it seems to loom down on him, closing him in, and he doesn’t realise he’s not alone until the sheets rustle besides him and a mess of red hair comes into his vision.

 

‘’Luhan,’’ he calls upon recognizing the familiar face.

 

He has no memory of last night. Somewhere between leaving the limousine for the red carpet and entering the thrum of the after party, he must have lost control. In a daze he notes that the both of them are nude underneath his covers, something which should probably be more disconcerting to him, but as of right now he’s just glad he’s gotten home whole. God knows how drunk he must have been. Or high. Or both. Who knows.

 

The other stands up into the sunlight currently illuminating Jongin’s bedroom, unabashed by his nakedness, and stretches out like a cat. His shoulders sag when he sighs and turns around slowly to send Jongin a cheeky smile, the shadows painting lines on his pale skin.

 

Jongin thinks he looks so young like this. A pretty face and a body to match, it’s a shame he’s so fucked up. Really ruins the fantasy, which is a pity.

 

He wonders when the other became like that and why, and if maybe Jongin seems the same to him. Luhan had always appeared so different from him; a washed-out rock star, wrapped up in the bad side of the entertainment industry, far away from Jongin himself. He doesn’t think he is the same. There seems to be some evidence in their current situation, but he doesn’t want to ponder that thought.

 

‘’Are you still high?’’ the other inquires. Jongin shakes his head, runs a hand over his face. His headache is especially bad today; it feels as though his head has been stuck between two bench-vices, the pain not throbbing but stinging at the back of his head.

 

‘’I’m coming down.’’ he declares and Luhan lets out a chuckle.

 

‘’Too bad. I took a pill this morning. Fantastic stuff, I tell you – you want some?’’

 

‘’No, thanks.’’ Jongin groans, the covers slipping off as he rolls over in an effort to avoid the sunlight spilling in. The bed dips somewhere besides his head and he feels Luhan leaning back and curving around Jongin’s body.

 

‘’You know, I thought you were done with this crap,’’ Luhan says after a minute, ‘’guess old habits die hard, eh?’’

 

He hears the sound of a lighter and then the soft exhale of the older man. Jongin wants to tell him not to smoke inside but it seems too petty, so he lets him.

 

Truth is, he pities the older man. He pities him and his dark, blown pupils in the early morning. Luhan has been an addict for years and is horrible at hiding it, too; multiple scandals have threatened to kill his career before. Not Jongin. He’s not like that. He can stop if he wants, anytime. It’s all under his control.

 

‘’Yeah,’’ Jongin sniffs into his pillow, ‘’I guess they do.’’

 

*

 

Drug dealers aren’t dark figures of the underworld, or dangerous men dressed in black and armed with a .45 magnum, looming in the shadows of the shady parts of town. What they are is ordinary people; university students looking for a bit of extra cash, single mums struggling to make ends meet, young boys wanting to make some quick pay on the side. They’re a business, and the set-up is simple. You call them, they meet you. Sometimes it takes a little longer because people show up when they’re selling, people that aren’t clients but beg them to please sell them some dope, and they have to go home to get a new stash before they finally arrive and you’ve been waiting in the cold for nearly half an hour. Jongin doesn’t like when that happens. He doesn’t like it because for one thing he only calls when he’s truly craving some and that makes every minute feel like centuries anyway, not to mention he looks suspicious hanging out on the corner of the street for such a long time and he doesn’t think getting swarmed with fangirls goes nicely with buying some coke.

 

It’s what he tells Jaejoong a chilly evening, complaining for the umpteenth time that he’s late, what the fuck? The other man sighs and explains what he’s explained so many times before.

 

‘’No, I’m not buying anymore,’’ Jongin concludes even as he snatches the plastic pouch out of the blonde’s hands, ‘’you either get me some decent service or I’m finding some other guy. There’s plenty out there, you know that.’’

 

Jaejoong throws his hands up in defeat, eyes wide and lips curt.

 

‘’Hey man, competition’s heavy as it is, yeah? You know we can’t help it. Sometimes you just gotta be patient, shit. I’ll send my friend next time, yeah? He doesn’t do sales to people that ain’t clients. His name is Kris.’’

 

‘’Kris?’’ Jongin snorts. ‘’A foreigner?’’

 

‘’Chinese. Or something. He’s also like, Canadian? It’s difficult, man. But he’s Asian, anyhow.’’

 

The money is handed over and quickly tucked away by Jaejoong’s swift hands and the two shake hands, as if they’re just old friends having met after some time, smiling and patting each other’s back. It’s a little play they always do at Jongin’s suggestion, in case any photographers are lurking around. They may be discreet, but you can never be too sure with those guys, he’d explained to Jaejoong. As his figure disappears into the night, Jongin realises that he won’t know this Kris guy from any other stranger in the streets.

 

‘’Hey!’’ he shouts after Jaejoong, ‘’what does your friend look like?’’

 

‘’Don’t worry, you’ll know!’’ the other shouts back without turning around, one hand casually cocked to the side in a goodbye.

 

*

 

The next time he needs a little something comes sooner than he had expected, but he doesn’t dwell on it, rings up Jaejoong instead. The other immediately makes him an appointment with Kris, and if Jongin expected to get his number then he’s wrong because Jaejoong insists all the contact has to go through him. It’s fine with him; he doesn’t care how Jaejoong arranges his business, as long as he gets his rush.

 

He’s been driving the production team up the wall with his whining and unwillingness to cooperate. They’re on their twelfth take and everyone’s patience is wearing thin. His manager complains that he’s too antsy, that he’s making all the inexperienced staff walk on pins and needles, and how difficult is it to just get through this scene?

 

‘’These people are very fucking important, Kai. You need to hold on to acting because sooner than later, singing’s going to be done for you. People are getting tired of you, and they are getting tired of idols in general. So if you want to keep your job, you best be professional.’’ His manager lectures.

 

‘’I am a professional!’’ he sneers back because he is, but he’s also currently in desperate need for a little something and he thinks that if he has to wait another minute he might lose his shit. His hands shake as he lights up outside of the studio, leaning against the grey wall in an effort to calm himself and his body down. The production crew had glared at him as he’d walked out, obviously discontent with what he imagines they call ‘snobbery’. They had better get used to it, Jongin thought. He was the star. That was what it said on his job description, ‘’the talent’’. So if he decided to sneak off for a quick cigarette break that was his damn right, damnit.

 

His phone buzzes with a text, which means it can only be either his mother or Jaejoong. As it turns out, it’s the latter, and Jongin can’t sprint quickly enough to the black Hyundai that drives up the lot.

 

When the man he supposes must be Kris gets out of the rackety car, he understands what Jaejoong had meant that day. They look incredibly similar: there’s the same dried up mess of bleached hair, a range of piercings decorating their face, and they both dress in black clothes that seem to belong in some second-rate rock star’s closet. Contrary to the rule, Jaejoong and Kris actually do look like they’re part of a gang, albeit a very flamboyant one.

 

The expression on Kris’ face is stern, and he must be a little taller than Jaejoong because he easily towers over Jongin. It makes him push his shoulders back and stand up straight in an effort to minimize the difference.

 

‘’Hey,’’ Jongin greets, voice easy as if they’re friends, and hopes Jaejoong’s informed the other about his special condition.

 

The man doesn’t wipe the scowl off his face, but he does step forward and bump his fist with Jongin’s.

 

‘’So how’ve you been?’’ he asks, feigning casual conversation as he hands over the pocket filled with cash. The man shrugs, and for a moment there’s a smile on his face. It looks better that way, Jongin thinks, before it falls back to its original state. Finally, what he’s been waiting for is handed over to him and if it had been Jaejoong delivering that day, Jongin thinks he might have hugged the man, so relieved he is upon seeing the familiar plastic pocket filled with more alleviation than the cancer stick still in his hands could ever give him.

 

‘’Everything good with the family, eh?’’ he continues. When the other finally opens his mouth to speak his voice is deep and rich and his Korean is accented in a manner Jongin can’t quite place.

 

They close the deal easily and Jongin doesn’t think more of it. Jaejoong’s gotten him a capable new trader. He’s pleased.

 

Afterwards, he bolts to the bathroom for a quick piss and an even quicker line. The stuff’s quality, because Jaejoong knows his shit and doesn’t fuck around with important clients like him, so he feels better almost immediately.

 

Much to the relief of the staff, the scene now only needs two takes to work, and when the PD finally yells ‘cut!’ his manager pats him on the back with a smile. He knows he’s done well. He is the talent, after all.

 

‘’Great job, Jongin.’’ His manager says proudly.

 

Jongin beams a smile back at him.

 

‘’Told you. I’m a professional.’’


	8. Wu Yifan (2/4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST \o/

 

*

 

His manager was right. He’s not that popular anymore. Although his singles still chart at #1, they always seem to make way for some new idol group with the name of ‘Iconiq’ quite quickly. It’s a ridiculous name for a group, Jongin thinks, and he’s sure it’s is filled with a bunch of pretty-faced twats. Whoever they may be doesn’t matter because at the end of the day his competition could have come from anywhere. Twenty-eight is old for an idol and he needs something a little more mature, a little more convincing, if he wants to stay in the game.

 

‘’The idol act isn’t holding up anymore,’’ one of the executives tells him during a meeting, ‘’we need to paint a new picture of you. Convince the public Kai has changed. He’s different; he’s not young but that’s not a problem. He’s like them, he’s down to earth.’’

 

Jongin shrugs around a mouth of water as the other people discuss what exactly ‘mature’ should mean. He’s not really listening to what they’re saying. They’ll tell him what he needs to know after. He’s surprised he’s been able to hold onto his contract for this long, honestly, and if he needs to change his image to stay on a little longer, who’s he to complain?

 

‘’I have an idea,’’ a petite girl on the other side of the table pipes up, voice soft. From the blush on her face it’s obvious she’s not used to these meetings. Besides, Jongin’s never seen her before and he’d remember a face like that. A face like that should be a trainee instead, he thinks. She’s silent for a moment and one of the executives nods in her direction, signals for her to go on. She starts to read from her notepad, hands clasped together like a child.

 

‘’An autobiography. Everybody wants to know what goes on behind the scenes, but gossip magazines and the like are viewed as silly. So what should we do about this? Well, books are mature. Adults aren’t shy to admit they read books, right? Fans would obviously want to buy it, but I think we can get the general public interested if we market it as a grand-reveal of what goes on behind the scenes. We don’t have to reveal all that much because generally, people don’t have any idea of what the industry is like. It can be just a little peek of what goes behind the scenes. Like, um, for example: how an album is made. So… that’s why… I thought that might work.’’

 

She ends her speech with a bow and a shy smile. One of the grey-haired men clutches her hand with a smile and tells her that’s a great idea, Bomi. Jongin’s stomach lurches.

 

‘’That actually isn’t too bad an idea,’’ says a higher-up whose name Jongin doesn’t remember, ‘’granted it would need to be handled very carefully, but I think it would be good to remember it. Type that down, will you, Hyunshik?’’ the woman orders to an acne-ridden boy sitting in the corner. Another executive inquires whether anyone else’s had any ideas and there’s the shuffling of papers as someone begins to explain a format idea they have.

 

‘’But –‘’ Jongin interrupts, several pairs of eyes turning to look at him, ‘’– I can’t write?’’

 

There’s a second before the room bursts out in laughter, even shy Bomi joining in with the rest of the crowd, and his manager pats him on the back.

 

‘’Of course  _you_  wouldn’t write it!’’ he exclaims and it sends another surge of laughter through the room.

 

Jongin laughs too, even if the joke’s on him.

 

*

 

Months pass in which he grows very familiar with Kris indeed, and if the times he calls for the other man increases he doesn’t say anything about it. The cold of the winter grows into the stream of hope that spring brings, but Jongin doesn’t start feeling any better. His apartment still feels as empty as it had that first day when he’d returned from China, and with Taemin gone and his schedule thinning out, he’s more than ever aware of how he has no friends to speak of. Luhan calls him often, wanting to spend some time with him, wanting to spend the night with him, but Jongin declines. It’s depressing to spend time with Luhan, a train-wreck of a human being. He feels bad for the other man, with the way he’s wasting his life away. He doesn’t want to get dragged down in Luhan’s misery. He has a good enough job maintaining his own.

 

Jongin’s new image had been decided. Bomi had been promoted to the grey-haired man’s office for her brilliant plan with the autobiography. She would now bring coffee round to not five, but twelve people. It was a great promotion indeed.

 

A ghost writer was chosen in the form of an enthusiastic kid who normally wrote political-based articles in men’s magazines such as GQ and The Daily Times, and he was deemed the perfect mixture of enviable sophistication and lad-ish swag to fit what would be his image from now on. He’d met the kid once, three years younger than him though his dark circles said otherwise, and he’d thought about getting off with him. Byun Baekhyun, his name was, and Jongin enjoyed the way it rolled off his tongue. The boy’s looks were good enough; a cute face and a lithe body Jongin would have liked to destroy, but his pure devotion to a book that wasn’t even going to carry his name, his adoration for his craft, took Jongin by surprise. It almost made him feel sorry for the kid, having to write such drizzle, but he couldn’t be bothered to care about him much.

 

Whatever. The kid probably wasn’t gay, anyway. The writers never are.

 

Baekhyun isn’t invited to the press conference when the book finally gets revealed to the world, but Jongin is. The conference itself he passes through a blur of white noise in his head, brought on by the cocaine he’d managed to sneak into the building and into his nose a couple of minutes before the event had started.

 

He knows the questions they’re going to ask, and he’s learned the answer to the questions they’re allowed to ask, so it’s a piece of cake. One reporter asks a particularly dumb question on fan service which had made him cringe a bit when studying, but the answer leaves his mouth quickly. The man smiles at him and a break is announced then. With a relieved sigh Jongin sinks deeper into his chair as people leave the room in a scurry of noise, happily chatting away. Next to him, his manager has already gotten his phone out and is hurriedly checking mails Jongin knows he should’ve answered a long time ago. He runs a hand over his face. He’s so bored. The entire thing is so boring. Who knew being a celebrity could be so tedious? They should’ve written that in the book, he thinks. It lies on the table in front of him, the title staring him in the face.

 

 _The Kim Chronicles_ , it reads. It’s a semi-serious title because he’s Mature now. No more Kim Kai the pop idol, but Kim Kai the singer (and sometimes actor but only in mediocre productions that do well with people that don’t care about the quality of the film, he’d added).

 

He opens the book on a random page. His eyes land on a sentence in the middle of the second chapter somewhere.  _My childhood was very serene_  it reads. True, Jongin thinks, and reads on,  _my first girlfriend was a nice girl from my class I won’t call by name_ , it says, and he snorts. He shoves the thing away, not in the mood to read the ridiculous blabber. There are still a couple of minutes left and he thinks about going out for a fag before his manager taps him on the shoulder.

 

‘’Jongin,’’ he starts, ‘’that up-and-coming idol group is here. I think it would be a good idea if you chatted with them for a bit, let the photographers take a few shots.’’ Which really means: go and do this, now. He rolls his eyes but stands up to meet the little snots anyway. They bow for him like the polite hoobaes they are and stand in a line to introduce themselves afterwards. Jongin doesn’t take note of the names they excitedly shout out; they’re all wearing too much make-up, and they’re all a little too stocky for his taste. When he reaches the last boy though, his heart leaps in his throat and he momentarily forgets how to breathe.

 

‘’Hello, my name is Cap. I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m the leader.’’

 

He’s grown taller and his jaw’s been fiddled with, but it’s unmistakeably him. The other recognises him too; he can see it in the flicker of his eyes. Ten years but he still pokes through the poker-face hiding a handsome smile. Suddenly he feels like smacking himself for not keeping up with the latest idol-groups.

 

‘’Sehun,’’ he creaks out, then when he notes the others looking at him oddly, he adds: ‘’Oh Sehun. We used to work together, didn’t we?’’

 

‘’Yes, we did.’’ Sehun states, voice monotonous.

 

He has a thousand questions he wants to ask but they’re at a press conference and his manager tells him the boys have to leave soon for some other recording can you please make this quick, so he poses for the cameras, one arm slung around Maybe and Definitely Not on his other side, tries not to sneak too many glances at the man who has decided to just pop up again after all those years.

 

They’re all bows and polite smiles afterwards, insist how much they loved his latest Christmas single and Jongin thanks them all before dragging Sehun off to the corner of the room for a chat.

 

There’s a runner making some coffee and a crew-member tinkering with one of the lights but it’s as close to privacy they’ll get, so it will have to do.

 

‘’I didn’t know you joined SM Ent!’’ he exclaims, smiling brightly at the other man.

 

‘’I didn’t mean to. I went to university for a while. They scouted me after you left me to become a solo artist.’’ Sehun deadpans and it makes Jongin’s face fall.

 

‘’Hey now, that was years ago. Let’s be adults about this,’’ he says sheepishly, hitting Sehun’s arm lightly in that way he remembers they used to when joking about with each other, lying on the couch with Sehun’s radio blasting whatever hip-hop song was the hottest thing that week.

 

Sehun doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything, either. He only stares at Jongin with those small, calculating eyes of his, his lips a firm line. Jongin remembers his face. He remembers kissing Sehun in his room with the door locked, in fear of one of the managers bursting in, remembers sneaking into the other’s bed at night and remembers the desperate noises he’d make if Jongin touched him just there. He swallows. It seems like those memories will never lose their heat.

 

Sehun’s still gazing at him, waiting for him to speak. Jongin smiles the smile he’d been taught to use when he was eighteen and had just been told he was going to be a star.

 

‘’You want to meet up sometime?’’ he offers, fingers trailing Sehun’s arm and body moving ever so slightly into the other’s personal space, ‘’As a sunbae, I could give you some great advice –‘’

 

‘’No thank you.’’ Sehun interrupts, taking a step back. He doesn’t shove Jongin’s arm off, but he does glare at him.

 

‘’That is very kind of you, sunbaenim. But I think I’ll manage.’’ He concludes and with a quick bow he’s gone, leaving Jongin to stand by himself sheepishly, looking at Sehun’s retreating figure and trying to understand what has just happened.

 

They come up to him again to say their goodbyes before they leave, and Sehun doesn’t try to hide his obvious staring. There’s an expression on his face, one he can’t read. It’s an odd expression Jongin doesn’t remember seeing on the younger man’s face, deep eyes and a slight curve of the mouth.

 

As he’s lying in bed that night, that familiar face still flashing in front of his eyes, it dawns on him that it hadn’t been disgust he’d seen in Sehun’s eyes, nor had it been antipathy badly hidden by a polite smile. It had been pity.

 

*

 

 There’s a party going on around Jongin. People are laughing loudly in the corner of the room at something a fat man squeezed into an expensive suit is saying, and a couple of feet away there are people dancing, some alone, others with each other, their bodies moving in tandem to the music that is making the walls thrum. Someone hurriedly apologises for throwing beer over him, but Jongin doesn’t take in the words. He feels sick. There’s a chill in his bones and there’s noise in his mind. He weakly makes his way through the crowd, trying to get to the lavatory because he’s pretty sure he’s going to throw up.

 

He knows the reason for his condition. He knows it damn well.

 

Jaejoong’s not picking up and even if he did, he would probably be busy with some other unplanned delivery, Saturday night being high life for all the parties buzzing around Seoul.

 

He manages to hobble into the lavatory eventually, getting a few odd looks from some of the men as he nearly stumbles over his own legs, the door clashing loudly behind him. The stinging white lights make his stomach lurch and have him rushing into the nearest cubicle where he heaves out the few things he’d been able to eat that day. His body shakes violently as he coughs up the bile burning his mouth. He lets himself slide down the wall and his body hang limp. A bitter chuckle leaves him as he thinks about how there might just be paparazzi at this party. It would certainly make an interesting turn of image to have photos of The New Kim Kai plastered all over tomorrow’s news sites, drunk as fuck and his own vomit all over the place. See how his management deals with that.

 

His phone buzzes. As he takes the thing out of his pocket, he can see his reflection in the black glass.

 

He’s a damn wreck. It’s been staring him in the face for some time now, but he can’t deny it anymore, not with the way he’s ended up tonight. He can’t remember where he is or what the party is even supposed to be for, though he knows it has something to do with his work. Something. He feels like a wreck anyway, wiping away the cold sweat from his brow, another shiver running through his body.

 

The stall door opens and for a terrifying second Jongin is actually convinced it  _is_  the press, before he’s greeted by a familiar face.

 

‘’Kris! My man!’’ he croaks, arms shooting up in a greeting.

 

The other man lifts a heavy eyebrow.

 

‘’I thought it was you I saw. What… what are you doing? Are you drunk?’’

 

Stumblingly, Jongin lifts himself up from the cold tiles, wiping some mysterious slimy substance from his trousers, and smiles up at the other man. Damp hair clings to his forehead.

 

‘’Do you have something with you? You know? A little something? I have money, I can pay – ‘’

 

‘’I don’t do unplanned deliveries.’’ Kris interrupts, face stern and voice grave, just as Jongin had expected he would. He’s so frustrated he could punch a wall. If he could just get a little bit, the tiniest of tiny sniffs, he would feel so much better already. Damn Jaejoong for not picking up.

 

‘’Yeah I knew you’d say that, but hear this: I’ll pay you extra. I won’t tell anyone. For God’s sake just this one time, I need something!’’ he shouts, voice breaking. He’s aware some of the people are now looking at the both of them but he doesn’t care if they hear. He tries to swing his fist at the other’s face in a rush of anger. It’s a pathetic attempt, and he trips over his own feet, nearly falling face-first onto the stall door if it weren’t for Kris’ arms catching him.

 

‘’You need something alright, but it sure as hell ain’t dope. Christ, how much have you had to drink?’’ The taller man utters.

 

‘’Did you take something? Hey, talk to me!’’ he demands, slapping Jongin’s face. It hurts, but the sting does help him sober up the tiniest bit.

 

‘’I didn’t take anything… drank some vodka. Stopped counting after the fifth,’’ He manages to recall before another wave of nausea hits him and he lunges towards the toilet bowl, a cursing Kris holding his hair back. He gets Jongin sitting up again and squats down to wipes off the younger’s mouth with some of the toilet paper. Embarrassment registrars in Jongin’s mind, but he’s too numb to truly feel it.

 

‘’Who did you come with?’’ the low voice demands.

 

‘’I came with Kim Kai. But I also brought Jongin along.’’ Jongin giggles at his own joke, laughs even harder when Kris’ face remains hard-nosed.

 

‘’It’s a joke!’’ he exclaims, arms wide. He lets them drop when the other doesn’t react, staring back at him with that same expression.

 

‘’Did you call a cab to come pick you up?’’

 

‘’Nah,’’ he drawls, ‘’Came all by myself. I can still drive, it’s fine.’’

 

He pushes his arms out in front of him, moving them around as if he were steering in order to show Kris that it really is fine.

 

‘’Yeah, no. That’s not going to happen.’’ the taller man decides.

 

With a sigh he looks down upon the mess of a pop star that is sitting on the floor, stomach hurdled empty inside the toilet bowl.

 

He’s seen him on television before; tall and tanned, a handsome one. Not that he cares about Jongin’s status of being an idol. Most of his clients are famous, or involved in the show business in some way; it’s just the circle he deals in. What he doesn’t deal in is taking care of his clients as if they were kids, or making sure they don’t become addicted. You choose to do drugs, you choose to handle the consequences, he’s always thought. Yifan’s never done drugs.

 

Truth is, he cares about the other man. God knows why, but he does, has done since the first time they had met. Perhaps it’s a crush that’s been going on longer than he knows, one he’s picked up from seeing him on telly. Maybe it’s because of the way he smiles so charmingly when he greets Yifan, or how his voice is light when he makes small talk. Who knows how these things start, what makes the chemicals in his body mess up his mind.

 

Whatever the reason, it makes him remove the leather jacket from his shoulders and drape it onto the other man’s, lift him up from the white tiles and pat the dirt off of his trousers.

 

‘’I’m driving you home,’’ he declares, ‘’so tell me your address.’’

 

*

 

Jongin wakes up in his apartment feeling like death warmed up. On his bedside table, there’s a telephone number scribbled on the back of a chocolate wrapper he’d left there the day before. Above it, there’s just scribbled ‘Kris’.

 

Despite what his throbbing headache suggests, he remembers last night. He wasn’t all that drunk, but alcohol mixed in with his fatigue had made him weak. An image crosses his mind of him, vomiting into the toilet, Kris hovering above him, holding his hair back and cursing like a sailor. He remembers how he’d puked all over Kris’ car, all over Kris, really, and he buries his face in his hands from the shame. A thank you would probably be in place, he thinks, but he’s too embarrassed to pick up the phone. His drug dealer had brought him home after he’d gotten his irresponsible ass drunk at a party. It sounds like a bad joke. His entire life seems like bad joke.

 

Later. He’ll apologise later.

 

He starts to feel more human after a shower though his heart still feels uncomfortably heavy in his chest; the pounding more present that it should be, making a shiver run through his body. He lights up a cigarette and it helps him calm for five minutes or so before his hands are shaking again. Shit.

 

A loud noise pulls him out of his thoughts; the aluminium of his phone buzzing against the glass of his coffee table, screeching unpleasantly.  He flips the thing open to see five new messages blinking at him. Three are from his manager, reminding him of his schedule today and to please be on time for God’s sake. He immediately deletes them. Another one is a silly picture of their dogs, sent by his mother early that morning which makes him smile. The last one is only a ‘good morning’ from an unknown number he doesn’t recognise. Irritation flashes through his veins, believing one of his stalker fans has gotten hold of his number,  _again_ , before it dawns on him. He all but runs into the bedroom, snatching the chocolate wrapper off his bedside table, phone in his hand. He glances between the two. The numbers are the same. He lets himself flop down onto his bed, then swiftly starts moving his fingers over the keys.

 

+10 6 59995411 07:27 AM

good morning

 

Jongin 8:06 AM

Hey! I wanted to thank you for yesterday night. if you need some extra money or something, just tell me. We’ll settle something. im really sorry about what happened

 

He lets himself stare up at the ceiling again, his heart pounding faster with the embarrassment of having apologised, his shoulders feeling less heavy with the relief. Now that he’s apologised, at least they’ll be able to move on. He needs to have another appointment, soon, or he’ll go crazy. The phone buzzes on his belly with Kris’ reply before he can regret it.

 

+10 6 59995411 8:07 AM

its no problem. Things happen

 

Jongin 8:08 AM

haha yea, i guess. Hey I was wondering if we could meet up soon? maybe today? The usual amount is fine

 

+10 6 59995411 8:20 AM

Im free around 13:30. come see me at Seocho’s The Inn if you can

 

*

 

Jongin has been free since twelve o’ clock, has been waiting in front of The Inn for ten minutes. He puffs out another cloud of smoke, businessmen rushing in and out of the stylish restaurant behind him, and looks at his watch. With irritation he notes that the other is late.

 

He doesn’t quite understand why Kris had wanted to meet here in the first place; the streets are not that busy, but busy enough for anyone to see them, and the restaurant is packed with employees of the local law firms having lunch in their flashy suits. It’s not quite like the place they’d usually meet.

 

When he finally sees Kris running towards him, it takes Jongin a moment to recognise the man. His hair is black, and the ridiculous wardrobe has been replaced by a suit. A cheap one, Jongin can tell, but a suit nevertheless. He almost wants to ask if there’s been a death.

 

‘’Hey,’’ he smiles, putting his hand up in greeting. The cigarette he flicks away, grinding it underneath the sole of his shoes.

 

‘’Hey.’’ The other mimics, voice less enthusiastic. Jongin colours as he remembers last night’s happenings, and wonders whether the other is angry. He knows he would be. But then, he didn’t  _ask_  Kris to help him, the other just… did.

 

He puts his hands in his pockets, not quite sure how to proceed. There are other people around, smoking, so it’s not like they can go about their business here.

 

‘’So?’’ he starts, chuckling sheepishly. The taller man’s lips curve ever so slightly into a smile and a large hand gestures towards the door of the restaurant.

 

‘’Have you had lunch yet?’’ He asks. It’s a suggestion, and right now Jongin doesn’t see why he shouldn’t take it. He doesn’t really think he can refuse either, because he still feels guilty and more than a little bit awkward towards the other man for what has happened. The last time someone had taken care of him like that, had tucked him into bed like that, it had been Chanyeol, and as awkward as that had been, at least Chanyeol had been his friend. Kris is his  _dealer_.

 

They get seated on the left of the restaurant, their table hidden between two partitions that should give them enough privacy, and Jongin thinks maybe that’s why Kris had chosen this restaurant.

 

There are a couple of minutes of small talk before Jongin cracks. He puts the un-read menu down with a sigh and lowers his voice as he leans in ever so slightly.

 

‘’Do you have the stuff?’’ he informs.

 

The other man leans back in his chair and peers up at him from behind his menu. There’s a twitch of his lips and his eyebrows furrow. He opens his mouth to answer but they’re interrupted by the waitress practically beaming at them if they’re ready to order. It takes him some time to decide on something as he hadn’t been paying attention to the Wide Range of Fresh Food available, but luckily Kris is quicker, and he orders for them both after checking with Jongin if that’s alright. As soon as the clicking sound of heels seems to have faded enough, Jongin presses back in.

 

‘’Kris! Do you have it?’’ he hisses. The heavy pounding of his chest is back, making him feel terribly unwell. It’s not as bad as yesterday. There’s no nausea or cold sweat, luckily, but he can feel the goose bumps underneath his sweater and the shiver running through his body.

 

The place is packed with people and he can feel the heating on his right side, pressing into his knee.

 

‘’First of all, I would like it if you called me Yifan, because that’s my actual name.’’ the other begins, voice calm. There’s a buzz, and he takes out his cell phone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket to look at it, but it’s apparently unimportant for the thing is quickly hidden away again. He lifts his head with a smile and props his chin up on his arm.

 

‘’I don’t have any drugs.’’ He admits.

 

‘’What?’’ Jongin snaps, ‘’what do you mean: you don’t have any? Then why did I come here?’’

 

‘’I didn’t say I was selling. All I did was tell you to meet me. You agreed to have lunch with me. I’m sorry if you were confused about the reason for our meeting.’’ The other points out.

 

‘’I don’t – I am not the person that is confused here.’’ Jongin insists. He fishes his wallet out of his back pocket and empties half the content onto the table. The other man raises his eyebrows in surprise, mouth opening and closing like a fish. Jongin gestures towards the money.

 

‘’This should be enough to pay for my lunch as well as yours. Consider this my apology for what has happened. As for the rest, I think you’re confused – ‘’

 

‘’No,’’ Yifan interjects, ‘’I think you are the one that is confused. If you keep doing this to yourself you’re going to end up in a ditch somewhere – is it worth that much to you? What happened yesterday was bad, man. I mean – you know the kind of things that people could have done to you.’’

 

It’s Chanyeol all over again, he decides. Jongin’s not sure what is worse: being in this position, or being in this position  _again_.

 

‘’You’re a drug dealer but you’re lecturing me on using drugs? Who the fuck do you think you are?’’ he spits. He should get up now, get out of the restaurant, delete Kris’ number from his phone. He could call Jaejoong and have him send someone else, but something keeps him in his seat.

 

Nobody has said anything like this to him. His therapist had, back then, but that doesn’t count. It’s obvious his manager knows about his habit, but he lets Jongin because he knows it helps him get through the days. Hyunah has always preferred to look the other way and Chanyeol has started to follow her example. Even Youngji had been silent when Jongin knew she had seen the plastic pouch as he had hurriedly picked it up from the snow and put it back into his coat. Nobody had lectured him. Nobody had told him off. They had seen him with his pupils blown and his speech large, manners loose in a way that was definitely not true to his own nature. Not a single person had cared.

 

He wants to make a retort but the waitress takes that moment to arrive with their food and drinks, smiling brightly at the two men aggressively avoiding her gaze by staring at their laps. She takes her time, giggling when she almost spills some of the Cola over Jongin’s trousers, and it seems to take ages before she finally leaves again.

 

‘’I stopped dealing,’’ Yifan confides, ‘’I needed the money but I – I don’t want to be caught up in that world anymore. I’ve actually just come from a job interview at one of the law firms around the block. So no, I’m not a drug dealer; not anymore.’’

 

‘’Well congratulations Mother Theresa,’’ Jongin huffs, ‘’now tell me why I should care?’’

 

‘’No reason. But I care… I care about what happens you.’’ The other man avoids his eyes as he says it, head bowed in a way that is almost shy but only looks odd on a man with his posture. Jongin blinks, perplexed.

 

‘’Why?’’ he asks, dumbfounded.

 

‘’I don’t know.’’ Yifan admits.

 

Jongin leaves.


	9. Wu Yifan (3/4)

 

The world could be a cruel place. This, Yifan established at an early age. It was not hard to notice; all you really had to do was look around. To not ignore the bruises his neighbour so often wore, and the way her husband’s voice would boom through thin walls into their living room, or to take the short route to the railway station and see dark-skinned children playing on busy streets, their clothes ragged and their eyes tired, their mouths speaking a langue Yifan didn’t understand, or to hear the chattering noise of large black death appliances projected on the small television screen perched between the fridge and the microwave, to hear the sinister laughter of the boys and the screams of the girls at night. He didn’t always understand these things, childlike innocence making him an observer rather than an actor in this twisted play, but he knew these things to be wrong. He knew by the way the other people, the adults, would try desperately to ignore and make him ignore. He remembered his mother hurriedly wiping dirty hands on her apron and scurrying towards the small device and the happy music that would play after she’d turned the button, bleak images of masked men now seemingly having been a dream, and the way she’d smile to where he was sitting at the kitchen table and mutter softly ‘that’s better’. He’d spent a lot of nights twisting and turning in his creaking bed, turning his parents hot-heated with irritation, fretting over the reason why his father would give his mother that look which that meant there was an Adult Secret hidden somewhere in his words, when he’d mention the sudden disappearance of their gym teacher, or that Jimmy had told him he was afraid to see the priest, silly Jimmy, and how he’d tell Yifan to eat his vegetables and stop poking your nose in things they don’t belong.

 

He didn’t understand his mother’s tears when he’d come home from school that day either, nor did he understand his father’s words about money and how he was going to live somewhere else and how daddy would always be here for them and how he had to be a good boy, now, but he knew something was adrift and the dread and fear had him clutching his father’s hand all the way to the gate until one of the short-skirted women in had pulled him and his suitcase away with the tears still streaming down his face. His mother had cried for nearly all of the torturing twelve hours before she’d collapsed into a tired sleep, and Yifan had clutched his teddy and smiled politely at the granny sitting next to him because his father had told him to be good and he did want to be good.

 

As the years flew by and Yifan’s experience grew, he began to understand more of the world. He knew what it meant when there was an odd smell coming from their neighbour’s flat and the way the cops would visit each month, and he understood their place in this country from seeing their rackety windows and the grey walls in the two-room apartment where they lived, so different from the grand landings and crisp white ceilings of his friends’. But unlike his mother, he couldn’t despair. He didn’t spend his days crying himself to sleep or worrying over unpaid bills because unlike his mother, he had had in his child-like innocence obtained the disadvantage of hope. Instead, he worked until the inside of his hands turned into a battlefield of blisters and studied until the police sirens ebbed away and the sky turned pink.

 

He was going to make it all alright. He was going to take his mother and he was going to put her inside an apartment with a shiny new oven and a fridge as tall as him in a place where the neighbours would smile and say hello, where your lungs didn’t slowly collapse from the toxic dust hanging around in the place, restricting your throat until your chest felt heavy and your head felt light, and their walls would be white. He worked and he studied until he started to believe he couldn’t anymore and then at last there was the scholarship. A glorious opportunity presented to him by a rich Maecenas to study Law at a relatively unknown, but admirable university in the south of South-Korea. There were some administrative costs, of course, but he would recover those easily by working one year as a lawyer, and it wasn’t anything Yifan’s savings couldn’t cough up.

 

He left the city with a new language on his tongue and his heart fluttering in his chest.

 

There was no university, of course. There was no college dorm with Chinese students ‘just like himself’, no taxi waiting to bring him to the bureau where he would receive his textbooks, no opportunity for Yifan in this land. It was just him and his remaining 1000 Yuan on the dark streets of a city he didn’t know.

 

*

 

He wrote the first email to his mother a month later, in a shabby internet café hidden away in the streets of the Dongdaemun district, where they’d serve you free rice and soy sauce if you used ten 500 won coins, Yifan’s steady diner supply. He had struggled to make the Chinese characters appear, fingers swiftly moving over the Korean on his keyboard to avoid the welcome screen popping up, demanding another of the few coins he had. Studying was going well, he’d let her know, and he had a job in this restaurant near the university dorms where the people had been kind and the owner had been a Chinese man himself, so don’t worry and I’ll come back, will take care of you soon.

 

After an hour of lingering around and emptying the water cooler, the owner would chase him out, pull him up by his collar and put him outside with the rest of the garbage, and the whole game would start again.

 

A month could be a long, long time, Yifan observed, if you had nowhere to go during the day and had to crawl around the dark streets hoping to find a nice priest that would let him sleep in the church ‘just for the night’, avoiding black uniforms while riding the tube and watching with eternal lids apart the shopkeeper’s daughter when shoving some Mars bars underneath his sweater.

 

Going back was not an option. For one, there was the problem of money and the general lack of it. He supposed he could have easily gone a couple of days not eating for the train ticket home, had he truly wanted to, but there was his pride. He had made a promise to his mother, and he had made a promise to himself. Going back to the way things were, to the leaking ceiling and the roaring sirens robbing them of their sleep, to bruises and the bailiff was not an option. Yifan knew that if he did go back, if he told his mother all about what had happened, she would smile, that tired smile, and tell him it was okay. Perhaps that was the worst thought. Because it was not okay; she deserved better. They deserved better.

 

He just needed that one boost, that one opportunity, and he’d fix it; if only he had a starting point. This, he told the owner of the bakery, the man at the tteokbeokgi stand, the kind girl at the barber’s, the man behind the desk of the cleaning company, and the receptionist at so many offices he’d lost count, but they never answered. Some had taken one look at his ragged bag and dirty clothes and straight-up refused him, others had given him some hope in a smile and a muttered ‘perhaps, I can talk to my manager…’, a phone number scribbled onto a note, but they had all ended in nothing. His Korean wasn’t good enough, his accent was too thick, he didn’t have any experience, they just weren’t looking; the excuses were varied and all too inevitable.

 

The first time he gets in touch with drugs, he’s nineteen and scared, folded up in a public bathroom in an effort to fall asleep before there’s someone bursting in with a needle filled with gold and copper, eyes dark and pupils blown, and he dashes out of the place as quickly as he can, heart pounding heavily in his chest with fear and bewilderment.

 

Skip to four years later, and he’s handing out that same diacetylmorphine to needy little pop stars and actors as if he were Father Christmas. They’re all on a diet of misery and success, and Yifan thinks he would feel a little sorrier for them if they weren’t all such terrible people, and he finds it might serve them right for their insides to be as horrid as their outside is beautiful. Their dramas seem petty and ridiculous, unequal to the immense suffering that goes on in a world far removed from them and the so-called glamour that they live in. It makes him sleep better at night, anyway, when the newspapers scream words like ‘overdose’ and ‘young’ and ‘tragedy’ at him. After all, this is his starting point, and there is only going up from here.

 

*

 

The first time he meets Kim Jongin, or Kai, as the media calls him, is unremarkable. The drive to the drama’s shooting location is a long one, through mountains and past tiny villages with grey-haired men peeping up at him from below their hats as the SUV bolts past them, but Yifan’s been told the other pays handsomely, so he gladly makes the excursion.

 

When he gets there, the other is already outside smoking a cigarette, and immediately Yifan remembers seeing his face at a party of Kim Joonmyeon’s, much in the same position. His face has bloated with age and his hair is less bright, but the cigarette perched between those full lips seems familiar.

 

The other stubs out the cancer-stick and dashes towards him before he’s properly out of the car, and greets him in a too-friendly fashion that Jaejoong had told him about and which he would have remembered if he listened to what the older man tells him. Jongin’s eyes are wild and his dark-circles are poorly hidden behind the layer of carefully-laid out make-up, and from this close Yifan thinks he looks just like any other junkie he’s ever provided for, famous or not. It’s a bit pathetic, really, how needy he looks, and he figures the other might not have provided enough for himself the last time, having had to live with shaky hands and pungent headaches. He’s seen the look before; it’s one he doesn’t like. Addicts are shitty clients, waking him up in the midst of the night for insane amounts of drugs they don’t have the money for.

 

He almost would have thought this was the kid’s first time, but considering his record with Jaejoong and the fact that he used to be part of Kim Joonmyeon’s inner circle, Yifan knows that’s not the case. He’d warn him to not be so greedy with the drugs, because shit, it’s easy to see the kid’s getting addict if not already doomed, but that would be odd considering his position, and he’d have to care about what happens to the mop of black hair. He doesn’t. If the kid does get addicted, he’ll pass him on to Seungri, Jaejoong’s newest addition to the ring, eager to reach for the top.

 

He leaves with two 100 000 won notes in his wallet, another satisfied customer dealt with.

 

*

 

The first time they talk, really talk, not the kind of small conversation they’d make when Yifan is there to hand him some cocaine to ruin his life a little bit more, is at a party thrown by some hotshot director. Yifan’s only there because he has an appointment, but there are familiar faces and people offering him a drink or two, and he finds himself lingering. It’s not something he does often, but the mood is right and the night is inviting. There are quite a few people here that he knows by face, either from business or from visiting places and parties like this because of his work, and amongst them is the pretty face of Kim Kai, slowly but surely getting shitfaced on shots. His career has long peaked, but he’s been able to keep a grip on his popularity, appearing in decent dramas and more-interesting-than-thou indie films with surprisingly good acting skills, and Yifan’s perhaps grown a bit fond of the boy and his silly pre-deal chats. There’s an odd sense of intimacy to them, and Jongin is more tolerable than all the other surly faces he puts up with because he knows how charming and kind the other can be, with his voice soft and a gentle smile at his lips; mama’s sweet little boy, the cute one sitting behind you in biology, the darling from across the street.

 

Jongin, unlike his image suggests, is quiet and kind, good-hearted beneath all the ugliness that he’s been made to become, and in absolute no meaning of the word, Cool. Yifan wonders how he ever survived.

 

From the corner of his eye Yifan seems him dancing with a glass in his hand, hips moving and hair flying in every direction, and then, when he looks again, the kid’s gone. For a minute, he thinks he’s gone entirely, dragged out of the party by a demanding manager or a demanding boyfriend (most likely), before he sees that familiar silhouette making his way through the crowd of people dancing behind the bar, getting annoyed looks and insults thrown at him in the process. He excuses himself from a conversation about stocks in the web-show business he hadn’t really been following, and goes after the younger.

 

It takes him a couple of minutes to find him, asking around and only getting indifferent shrugs and raised eyebrows from pretentious socialites dressed in black, pushing past people blazing up and making out before finding the miserable heap of pop star in one of the stalls in the men’s, puking his guts out from the sound of it.

 

Now, he has a rule not to get involved with his clients’ personal lives, but he’s not an unfeeling bastard, and the poor situation the kid is in needs some help; help Yifan knows he won’t get from any of the egotistical, self-important pricks present that are too busy getting fucked up themselves, anyhow.

 

Yifan knows that this is a grown man, one that should be able to take care of himself, one that doesn’t need his supervision, but then perhaps he does. He thinks it’s unfair, really, that the other had ever been trusted into this world when it’s obvious to anyone and their dog that he doesn’t belong.

 

Jongin looks small but feels heavy in his arms when Yifan manages to drag him out into the night air, where the other immediately takes the chance to vomit on the pavement, then once more on the backseat of his car, before finally falling asleep. It’s not a long way to the apartment and Yifan’s relieved when the black-haired man wakes up before they arrive, lets them in, but doesn’t protest when Yifan puts him underneath the shower, black-tie and all, hanging limply in his arms. He gets him onto the bed and finds some dry clothes in the closet. His fingers hesitate at the first button of Jongin shirt’s before he decides against it and throws him the clothes instead.

 

‘’Take those clothes off. You’ll catch a cold otherwise.’’ He explains. Dark, brown eyes look up at him from underneath long black lashes, white silk sticking to tanned skin, the expensive fabric now ruined forever by Jongin’s own doing. It takes him a moment to realize Jongin’s waiting for him to turn around, like a teenage girl embarrassed to undress in front of her friends, and he almost laughs at how fitting the image is.

 

‘’Why are you helping me?’’ that deep voice asks, and when Yifan turns around again he finds Jongin pulling the T-shirt over his head, over damp hair and damp skin. The suit is kicked out into the corner of the room and the wet socks he keeps on, something Yifan notices with a frown. He sighs and walks over to the other, lets himself plop down onto the bed.

 

‘’If I were in your situation, I wouldn’t be asking that.’’ He points out as he drapes a damp towel over Jongin’s head. Jongin lets him, his hands neatly folded in his lap. They’re shaking, Yifan notices. From the cold or from something else, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask.

 

‘’Man, I can’t remember ever feeling this horrible. If I have to puke one more time, I’d rather just die.’’ Jongin moans and Yifan snorts.

 

‘’Shit, don’t tell me.’’

 

There’s a weak smile at Jongin’s lips then, and it’s genuine, Yifan can tell, and it makes him smile back. They sit there for a moment, Yifan waiting for Jongin to kick him out and Jongin waiting for something… Yifan doesn’t know. He doesn’t kick him out, so he lights up a cigarette, uncaring if the other doesn’t like it. He doesn’t offer him one, focuses on the way the grey smoke languidly unfolds into the room, like a diver moving through water.

 

The walls of Jongin’s bedroom are dark, nearly as black as his sheets and the curtains filtering the harsh light of Seoul’s skyscrapers. There’s a general mess of empty glasses and bottles, dirty clothes and some very familiar empty plastic pouches lying about. No photographs of family or friends, no silly souvenirs brought from the countless places Jongin is sure to have visited, not even any prices lined on the bookshelves like Yifan had expected. Take away the fancy furniture, Yifan thinks, and the place would look just like the one their neighbour in Canada used to live in before he drank himself to death, a recluse and a drunk all rolled in one unhappy package.

 

‘’I see you’ve made the place quite cosy here,’’ he remarks and there’s a bitter laugh from Jongin’s side then, almost a sneer, before he nods and takes the cigarette from Yifan’s lips without question.

 

‘’Thanks,’’ he says between a cloud of smoke, full lips wrapping themselves around death in a stick, ‘’I designed it myself.’’

 

Yifan laughs then, takes the cigarette back from skinny fingers, and pats the other’s thigh. The kid had some humour, at least.

 

An hour ago, when Jongin had still been vomiting all over his car, all over his jacket, he’d wanted to smack him, give him some good talking down. Describe to him exactly what could have happened, with him out of his mind like that, tell him what a fucking moron he was and then some, but now, Yifan realized he didn’t need to. Jongin knew.

 

He didn’t live like this because he was naïve – he lived like this because he understood. Understood the misery that life can bring and how fucking black things are when you open your eyes and how nothing of it really matters. Only nobody else did. Nobody else would play the game because they didn’t understand the rules. This was a comedy, but nobody was laughing with Jongin.

 

‘’So what’s that like then, being a celebrity? Girls throwing themselves at your feet? People drooling over every word you utter? You’d think you were a God, the way the media speaks of you.’’ Yifan grins, leaning back but eyes never leaving the other’s face. There’s a bark of laughter then, perfect features settling into a blinding smile.

 

‘’Don’t be ridiculous,’’ Jongin protested, ‘’I’m better than God.’’

 

‘’Absolutely.’’ Yifan agreed.

 

*

 

The next time they meet, Jongin leaves with Yifan’s heart on his sleeve and their relationship, if you would go so far as to call it one (Yifan would), ends so abruptly as it had started slowly. Jongin doesn’t call anymore, and Yifan likes to believe that’s because he’s accepted Yifan’s wish not to be in the business anymore, rather than the disgust and resentment the other must feel towards him. Yifan wishes he’d been more careful, wishes he hadn’t sprung it on the other like that, but he had and in the end it didn’t matter. None of it mattered because Yifan was now a lawyer, full suit and respectable speech and all, and he was getting pussy left and right so he didn’t need the friendship of a washed-out pop star, the constant companionship of an idol of yesteryear.

 

That was gone now. He had moved into a nice little apartment, an upgrade to the one they’d had in China, not nearly as nice as the spacious floating fucking villa Jongin’s apartment had been, but it beat sleeping in the streets any day. He sat behind a desk pretending to understand what he was doing every day from nine to five (or six, or seven, sometimes eight, however long it would take his chief to discreetly fuck the secretary in his office) and he bought groceries in the local supermarket, the girl behind the counter smiling at him as he paid for stuff he had stolen there so often he sometimes caught himself reaching for a sweater to push up and only finding a neat, ironed shirt instead. He had left behind the messy business of selling death to pretty little puppets, of fearing a gun to his head in the night and an uniformed arm dragging him behind bars. All the dirt, the grime, the suffering and the struggling seemed to finally be over; at thirty, his life had finally become the way he had wanted it to be when he had first gotten onto that plane all those years ago.

 

He still took Jongin’s call when it came five months later.

 

Somehow, seeing him then had seemed like first seeing Jongin. He had followed the nurse’s directions and he’d found Jongin sitting on one of the beds, hands on his knees and his back bend. The bed next to him was empty, but there wasn’t anything on Jongin’s side, either. No flowers or cards, and perhaps it could have been because Jongin was leaving, but then Yifan knew better. The bag at the end of the bed was almost entirely empty as he picked it up and swung it over his shoulder. Noticing the presence next to him, Jongin’s head finally moved, looking up at Yifan with tired eyes. His fringe had grown, little strands poking his eyes as he tried to flick them away, stubbornly sticking to his forehead. Beneath the thin shirt there were collarbones poking out, bony shoulders struggling to keep the fabric from slipping, and the chubby cheeks that had seemed so childish to him had gone. He looked as if he had aged years and for a moment, Yifan thought they’d put Jongin in the wrong ward. Jongin smiled then, a genuine smile that had those tired eyes lighting up, and Yifan felt in that moment that it had not been Law school that he had come to Korea for, nor the blood-stained money he had efficiently sent home each month, or his desk at the twelfth floor of Park&Chang, but to find the feeling that made his hearth speed up and his blood run hot from the pure fascination of that smile. He knew that every inch of his being wanted to see that smile more, that he wanted the other’s laughter and pain and happiness, and that without, he might as well not live.

 

Love is something you can’t describe, the adults would say and the books would read and the films would mean, and Yifan had thought that was just bullshit. Love was like getting off with that really hot chick you’d be eyeing all evening, love was getting a shitload of money in your hands after a particularly sketchy deal, love was knowing the power of beating someone up so badly you had their life in your hands, love was adrenaline and passion running through his veins. Except it wasn’t, not at all.

 

Standing in that hospital, in front of this thin, quite haggard looking man, this silly pop star with his silly songs and silly movies, Yifan felt that being in love didn’t make you feel powerful at all. He felt small, as if with one wrong move his heart might combust. It made you feel fearful because for the first time in your life, you had someone else to protect, a body roaming around that you couldn’t control, a worry clenching your heart because maybe, they would leave you, or maybe you couldn’t be enough, maybe you couldn’t make it last, and that wouldn’t be alright because life without them would be useless.

 

‘’I signed myself in, you know,’’ Jongin starts after ten minutes of driving through a landscape of tunnels and concrete, past gangly trees bravely sprouting leaves again, and something hitches in Yifan’s throat.

 

‘’Oh,’’ he says, not averting his eyes from the road. On the radio, Sistar’s latest single is playing, telling them to touch their body. Neither of them moves to turn it off.

 

As Yifan drives up to the highway, the song switches to the happy tunes of Kylie Minogue’s I believe in you and Jongin’s body jolts forward in a laugh, punching the button on Yifan’s stereo system to silence the delighted whining of Kylie Minogue, and Yifan laughs too.

 

‘’Thank you,’’ Jongin says, and when Yifan turns the corner he can see the honestly in those dark eyes, ‘’for giving me a lift.’’

 

There’s a slight pause then, and Yifan opens his mouth to say something like, it doesn’t matter, before Jongin starts again.

 

‘’I – sorry. No, it’s fine, you speak first.’’

 

Yifan waves his hand nonchalantly, because he doesn’t trust his brain after what had happened at their last meeting, and Jongin slides deeper into the seat of Yifan’s SUV, his shoulders relaxing.

 

‘’I thought my parents would come. My sister had wanted to, I think, but of course she’s too much of a wuss to go against what they say.’’

 

There’s a deep sigh, body sliding even further down the chair, before his eyes falls upon the packet of cigarettes lying on the dashboard. Leaning forward, he fishes one out of the packet and holds it up for Yifan to see.

 

‘’Can I – ‘’

 

‘’Go ahead.’’

 

‘’Thanks.’’ There’s a puff of smoke then, and the way Jongin smokes seems almost familiar to Yifan now. His head tilted back every so slightly, cigarette perched between slender fingers, wrist cocked to the side and eyes focused on the ceiling, like a priest looking up to the Lord.

 

‘’They never visited. They answered my calls, at first, but when they learned the number they stopped. I just – it frustrated me, you know? Because it wasn’t like they hadn’t known, they had. But when it became real, they are suddenly so fucking surprised, shit. Just like all the journalists and networks and musicians that have always sucked my dick, all of them, they dropped me.’’

 

All of it is said with the emotion of someone deciding which soup they’re going to order.

 

Yifan wonders if he should stop the car, if Jongin’s going to have some sort of mental breakdown, if he wants Yifan to listen more carefully, but the other does nothing to indicate anything of the sort. So he drives on.

 

Jongin manages to smoke two more cigarettes before they finally arrive at his apartment, Yifan parking the car inside the nearly-empty lot, and they stay silent the entire time. They both sit there having too much to say for this conversation, before Jongin puts out the cigarette that’s nearly burning his fingers at last.

 

‘’You came,’’ Jongin says after a moment, and it’s not clear to Yifan at first but then he repeats himself, ‘’you came. Nobody else did but yet you came. After I – I was so horrid to you back then –‘’

 

‘’Jongin,’’ Yifan interjects, his chest restricting from seeing the tears in his eyes and hearing the guilt hidden in his voice, and he puts a hand on Jongin’s shoulder, ‘’of course I came.’’

 

Jongin’s lips quiver and for a moment Yifan thinks he’s going to burst into tears, but then there’s a wide smile and the other launches himself at him, arms around his neck, and there’s laughter vibrating against his throat.

 

‘’I am so glad you did.’’ Jongin admits, and Yifan thinks he is glad, too.


	10. Wu Yifan (4/4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote all of this in one go so it hasnt been corrected yet but i mean, i need to get this on the internet and done with lol

*

 

His contract isn’t renewed, of course. It’s the best thing that’s happened to him in years and he’s practically jumping up and down as he shakes the CEO’s hand, who only looks at him in a way that makes it obvious he thinks Jongin’s lost his mind.

 

For the first time since stepping into that building ten years ago, Jongin’s mind is in the right place. There’s a huge backlash in the media. The magazines, entertainment channels, paparazzi, even the fucking news are busy for weeks, slandering his name and everyone he’s ever got anything to do with. Cameras are shoved into his face and his phone rings off the hook, every journalist in South-Korea wanting to have  _the_  interview with this fallen pop star, to have the headlines filled with the hows and the whys. When he gets out of his apartment (now, for sale! at the fetching price of five million dollars) there’s a film crew waiting for him and a journalist rushes out, armed with a microphone, and she shoots questions at him; why did you do it? are you feeling better? will you smile at the camera? and Jongin doesn’t give a shit. He doesn’t answer her questions, nor does he pick up any of the calls. He hides his face behind scarves and masks where even 300 mm lenses don’t see. The media calls it embarrassment, caused by the horrible deed he has done. The truth is, Jongin doesn’t want to let them see the smile that’s hidden underneath.

 

He knows the circus will die down after a couple of weeks, when the next miserable story comes around of some actress having an eating disorder (it’s horrible, but the media will say ah and oh isn’t it sad and that makes it okay). Maybe something else, something equally depressing used to distract people from their own misfortune, but Jongin knows it’s never going to start ever again. Not for him; he is finally free. There won’t be a comeback, a movie, a phone commercial. His looks will fade along with his fame and a couple of years from now, he’ll be able to walk the streets like any ordinary Joe. There won’t be someone tapping him on the shoulder, reminding him of that meeting in half an hour, reminding him not to curse and to smile and not look so tired. No more screaming girls and shouting directors, or bones cracking underneath a particularly sketchy dance move, or blood coughed up in the sink while his manager tells him it’s normal, happens to everyone. Never again will days slip through his fingers, locked inside of waiting rooms and stages set up with fancy lights and platforms, forgetting what the night looks like outside. The fear of unwanted hands wandering over his body, of a voice he doesn’t recognize on the other side of the line, of unknown footsteps following him, all that shall fade, too.

 

Kim Kai is dead; an image of the past that only lives on in film and photographs, forever there to see but never to touch.

 

He goes to see that therapist and the first week all he does is cry. It’s not out of sadness or despair; it’s because of happiness and relief. It shakes his body and leaves him feeling wrecked, like he would feel when he was little and he’d spend the entire day at the beach running around and jumping on his sisters’ sand castles, and the rest of the time he spends sleeping. He’s bought himself a house, a proper one with fundament and a white picket fence and all that shit, tucked away on the edge of the forest of Taebaek. Only a bit of the furniture’s arrived, but Jongin doesn’t mind, not when he’s nearly ever awake.

 

Here’s the dream he keeps on having: he’s lying in a bed. All he can see is white. The endless white walls surrounding him, the linen covering his body, even the landscape outside of the windows, a square of white. He is alone in the room. He doesn’t do anything but lie there; waiting for someone to come in. Suddenly, he realizes he’s wearing a mask. It’s covering his nose and mouth and when he tries to breathe again, his throat restricts. He tries again, again and again, his mouth opening and desperately trying to suck in the air but his throat is too tight; too little oxygen is going in and he can feel his throat growing ever more and more close, no matter how much he tries to breathe. Realization dawns on him and his chest heaves with the effort that he’s putting in, trying to suck the air into his lungs, over and over, because he doesn’t want to die. The blood in his veins runs cold with panic. He can see himself lying in the bed, looking down at him as if flying overhead, but there’s nothing he can do. He can feel his throat; it’s too tight, there’s no air left, and he knows it’s all going to be over. On the other side of the room, a voice pops up, unidentifiable, screaming at him to breathe. He always wakes up before he dies, tears running down his face. 

 

*

 

With him and Yifan, it’s a little awkward, at first. Yifan’s the one to call him first, asking him if he’d like to get some dinner. They fumble over words and sentences, both trying to find a conversational topic that will interest the other, before Yifan settles on telling Jongin about Canada and China and how he became a drug dealer and how he became a lawyer. Jongin listens, genuinely interested, and eventually tells Yifan about debuting and Joonmyeon and Sehun and what actors truly have to do to land those high-profile roles. They’re not the most uplifting of topics, but it’s what they know, and Jongin easily laughs at Yifan’s tasteless jokes while Yifan loves hearing Jongin describe the dirty secrets of big-name directors and CEOs. It’s where they start. Afterwards, date nights multiply, and they’ll eat dinner in a fancy restaurants because they’re adults, or go to see a intellectual French film about the uselessness of life, because they’re adults, and Jongin will pound Yifan into the mattress after a bottle of fine red wine because they’re adults. They quarrel over stupid shit like Yifan being late because of work, or Jongin losing his car keys all the time, or it’s you who picked up the bill last time, so  _I_  am paying tonight. They shop for groceries together just so Jongin can fail at making stew and they can order Chinese instead (which Yifan complains never does taste like true Chinese food anyhow).

 

After a month, Jongin spends his money on the first sensible thing in a long time, by buying a building, long empty, in a sensible neighbourhood of Seoul. He gets some Turkish men to patch the thing back up, then hires a Russian woman to be their principal instructor, and puts a young Korean kid behind the piano of the dance hall. He wants to call it the Bolle Ballet, after the great Roberto Bolle, the one that had made him start to dance all those years ago, but Yifan tells him not to name his dance academy after his first wet dream so it becomes quite blandly ‘’the JK’’ instead.

 

It’s takes some time for them to get a reasonable amount of students, partly because Julija’s standards are as high as the Wall of China is long, partly because of the damage to his name that makes people want to avoid sending their precious children to the academy of a druggie. Others don’t seem to mind at all, progressive hippies that tell him with a wink that they’ve lived through the sixties, darling, or leftover ahjumma fans that linger a little too long after dropping off their daughters and sons in the hope of catching a glimpse of the man himself. Jongin assigns himself to the desk, working through application forms in the study of his home miles away, or answering mails from clients and gathering interest from prospective companies for his students. He works nine to five, five days a week, and it’s dull and repetitive and not exciting at all. It’s exactly how he wants it to be.

 

*

 

He opens the door one day to be greeted by the face of his sister, her jaw set and her lips firm, which Jongin knows means that she feels guilty. Good, he thinks, because his family has steadily been ignoring him ever since he got himself checked into the clinic. His phone goes to voicemail, his emails mysteriously don’t arrive, and they’re never at home when he visits.

 

Still, for all the anger he feels, Youngji is his sister, his sweet, wise sister that has helped him so many times before, and he sort of wishes she’s here to apologise, has been hoping for some time now.

 

‘’What are you doing here?’’ he barks in lieu of a greeting. She doesn’t reply, just peers over his shoulder into the living room, eye landing on the shiny new furniture and yet unopened boxes filled with shit Yifan’s brought in last Sunday and neither of them could have been bothered to unpack.

 

‘’Can I come in?’’ she asks. She doesn’t push in; doesn’t try to get her foot in the door or to gently push him aside, just stands there with a hand clutching her purse and her lip caught between her teeth in that nervous fashion.

 

‘’How did you get this address?’’ he shoots back, because he’s not going to give in that easily. He’s still waiting for an apology, a quick word or two; something to show that she’s sorry. His sister sighs, a small whine escaping her mouth as she hops from one foot to the other, a pout on her face.

 

‘’Come on, Jongin…’’ she begins, voice soft. Jongin only crosses his arms.

 

‘’Look, I’m sorry, but you know what mom and dad are like. If I had gone – you know the family would have made a whole thing of it, Jongin, especially mom and dad. You remember what had happened with aunt Hyunji. I just – I’m here now, aren’t I?’’

 

‘’Is that why you’re here? Quite a meagre apology, sis.’’

 

‘’No,’’ Youngji states pointedly, ‘’that’s not why I’m here.’’

 

‘’Then why?’’

 

A gush of strong wind hits the house, whipping his sister’s hair in every direction and making the leaves rattle from the pure force. His sister rubs her arms as a shiver runs through her body, shoulders high and neck pushed far into her coat in an effort to keep warm.

 

‘’Could we, maybe – it’s quite cold out here,’’ she offers, nudging him inside. He rolls his eyes but finally gives in and steps aside, letting his sister in. She follows him into the kitchen, draping her coat over one of the chairs, inviting herself for a drink, and comments on how the place looks nice while Jongin gets some juice from the fridge.

 

‘’Thanks,’’ he snarls as he slams down the glass, leaning over the counter and purposely not sitting down. If his sister thinks things are dandy just like that, she’s mistaken. He can keep up the act of the grouchy little brother for a long, long time. ‘’Now why are you here?’’

 

His sister’s hands move from where they’re circled around the glass to her purse, where she fumbles around before finally finding what she’s looking for. She doesn’t show Jongin immediately, hesitating almost, and it’s odd to see his sister being this insecure. It’s unlike her and it makes him nervous.

 

‘’What? What is it?’’ he asks, genuinely curious but also a bit afraid as to what could make his sister behave so oddly.

 

‘’I just – it seems a bit silly now, but I thought you probably didn’t get the paper anymore so you wouldn’t be able to see… and I thought you might appreciate it. I don’t know, I’m sorry if you think it’s stupid.’’

 

She slides the thing over to Jongin, a small cut-out of last week’s paper. It’s an obituary notice, and there, unmistakeably, is his name. They had written his full name, the one Jongin would always tease him about, with ‘Maria’ in the middle, a remnant of his Christian grandmother, and when he checks the birth date is also correct.

 

For a moment, he’s completely overtaken by surprise, almost forgetting about his sister.

 

‘’Is it really him?’’ he asks. His sister nods.

 

‘’There was another one that had a picture with it, but – since this was the one put there by his wife I thought… I still have the picture, if you want it. It is him, right? The one you… you know.’’

 

‘’Yeah. ‘tis.’’ He breathes, letting himself slide onto the chair, staring incredulously at the paper still in his hands as if it can’t be true. His sister avoids his gaze by staring at her glass, sliding it back and forth between both hands.

 

‘’I recognized the name when I first read it but I thought it couldn’t be true, you know? Because I remembered the both of you being about the same age. I think – they didn’t outright state it – but looking at the other notices, he must have been ill. One of them spoke of a long fight.’’

 

‘’I can’t believe it,’’ Jongin gasps, placing one hand over his mouth, and he truly can’t. The words don’t quite seem to sink in, and they don’t seem to have even when his sister leaves an hour later, and he lies in bed remembering things he hasn’t remembered in years, all the while the image of those words flashes in front of his eyes.

 

Do ‘Maria’ Kyungsoo

Loving father, husband and son

12-01-1993 ✝ 05-03-2024

 

*

 

‘’Who was he?’’ Yifan asks when they’ve returned from the cemetery, a steaming cup of tea in their hands. The weather had worked against them that day; harsh, cool wind blowing into their faces and underneath their coats, thick raindrops falling from charcoal sky. Yifan had walked with him until they’d finally found the headstone hidden in a corner, surrounded by flowers and jaded candles, stubbornly holding the umbrella over Jongin’s head until it eventually broke from a particularly strong gust of wind (like Jongin had told him it would).

 

‘’I suppose… my first boyfriend. But we were best friends for much longer.’’ Jongin considers.

 

‘’Why didn’t you tell me about him?’’ Yifan asks. He hisses when he burns his tongue on the hot tea like the idiot that he is and Jongin can’t resist the urge to roll his eyes at the 5-year-old adult sitting opposite of him.

 

‘’Do people generally talk about their exes with their new partners?’’ he comments.

 

‘’You told me about Joonmyeon,’’ Yifan points out, ‘’and Sehun.’’ He adds.

 

‘’Yeah but Kyungsoo was – I dunno. Different, somehow.’’

 

‘’First love never dies.’’ Yifan jokes, wiggling his eyebrows.

 

‘’My first love did die. Kyungsoo literally just died.’’ Jongin retorts and he does apologize when Yifan’s face falls immediately, admits that was a little distasteful.

 

A pigeon lands next to the window then, and Jongin’s left alone with his thoughts while Yifan spends the next five minutes tapping the window, trying to get the animal to notice him, because Yifan’s an idiot that for some reason fucking loves birds and who also doesn’t understand the concept of pigeons not being intelligent enough to take in their surroundings in the same way humans do.

 

Kyungsoo had been different. Perhaps because it’s Kyungsoo that had broken up with him, rather than him breaking up with someone else, or the break-up forcefully happening because of his surroundings. Kyungsoo had been different too, because he hadn’t been through it all – he had been Kim Jongin still and though he still is now, he has been Kim Kai. That makes a difference, he thinks.

 

Memories of Kyungsoo all seem to carry a particular kind of warmth, something to do with childish innocence and general naivety, of living in a world that’s much smaller than the one he knows now, of worries that didn’t exist and sacrifices he hadn’t yet have to make. He had felt surprise when his sister had first shown him the undeniable evidence that yes, Kyungsoo was gone – partly because he hadn’t thought of Kyungsoo in so long, partly because they had been about the same age – but the sadness he had expected to come never quite flourished in his mind. Kyungsoo seemed too long gone; a ghost of his past, now completely vanished.

 

‘’I don’t feel very sad,’’ he admits to the older man when he’s finally settled down again, ‘’do you think I should be?’’

 

Yifan tilts his head as he seems to ponder the thought, tea cup brought up to his lips.

 

‘’Not really. Why should you be? It was a long time ago.’’

 

‘’It’s just – ‘’ Jongin hesitates, trying to catch his thoughts, ‘’ – that was such a happy part of my life, you know? And now, with him gone – somehow, it seems more final. It’s done forever… maybe that should make me sad.’’

 

Yifan’s eyebrows scrunch together. He leans back in his chair, tea cup pressed against his belly. He considers the thought.

 

‘’Would you go back?’’ he asks after a moment, ‘’if you could – if you had a time machine. Would go back and change it? Would you do things differently? Try and make that period of your life last a little longer?’’

 

‘’No,’’ Jongin answers instantly, ‘’never.’’

 

Yifan smiles, the silly smile that means he’s filled with love – because Yifan’s a hopeless romantic even if he desperately tries to convince the entire world of the opposite – and Jongin realises that everything is exactly as it should be.

 

*

 

It takes them a whole month to unpack all of Yifan’s stuff and in the end, it’s only done because his sister comes over and demands them not to treat their house like a pigsty, and Yifan’s so intimidated he does the laundry and washing up as well.

 

Living with Yifan is different, but it’s different in a nice way. He leaves early every morning complaining that the drive to Seoul is too long, after Jongin has stuffed him with breakfast and has made sure he’s got matching cufflinks on both arms, and Jongin will work in his office until Edna, their cleaning lady, arrives (because honestly, they shouldn’t pretend to be able to do any of that on their own: as far as Jongin knows the blue liquid that’s in his toilet after she’s left might as well have been put there by magic) and he chats with her a pit, makes her a cup of tea.

 

Sometimes they go into town for dinner because Yifan’s done well and he’s high with pride and enthusiasm cursing through his veins, and he’ll take Jongin to the most extravagant restaurant he can possibly find, black-ties and classical music and silver cutlery and all that, and he’ll make love to him afterwards, have him writhing on the sheets with pure pleasure until he feels like his heart’s going to burst from having Yifan on him, around him, inside him, surrounding him.

 

Other days Yifan’s tired from having been bossed around and Jongin will order pizza or Chinese or something else that’s way too greasy and fatty for any self-respecting gay man, but they’ll eat it anyway and Jongin will try to steal the remote from where it’s clutched in Yifan’s hand, the other now asleep, and Yifan will wake up and snap at Jongin and say he was watching, don’t change the channel, and Jongin will roll his eyes and put up with whatever stupid crap is on the telly because he loves Yifan enough to watch years of Wheeler Dealers.

 

He supposes that is what is all comes down to: loving Yifan. It has taken him years to understand why people stick together through thick and thin, why they wage the storms together, why they don’t just let go. It’s why he stays even when they have a gigantic row about Yifan and the intern that’s constantly texting him, when Yifan yells at him to stop being such a fucking paranoid shithead, doors slamming and car speeding away. It’s the reason why Yifan takes him to the hospital to get the wound on his thigh checked, the one that he himself had stupidly inflicted in a moment of weakness, why he doesn’t judge but holds his hands instead. Love is why he puts up with a house filled with Yifan’s relatives all drunk and shouting in a language he doesn’t understand, forcing him to dance with them on the tune of some traditional song Yifan’s mother sings along with the clarity of a cat stuck in a dishwasher. It’s why he puts up with his farts, burps, sweat body odour, general unpleasantness and his tendency to forget to flush the fucking toilet, for God’s sake.

 

It’s because in return he gets showered with Yifan’s love every day, from the way his hand naturally wanders to Jongin’s thigh when they’re draped on the couch at night, to the way he always turns up volume when one of Jongin’s old singles gets played on the radio and sings along on the top of his lungs even though it embarrasses Jongin greatly, because he knows it makes him feel proud, too. Yifan tries ridiculously stupid things like giving Jongin a hundred roses on Valentine’s Day or serenading him with a slightly modified version of ‘She’ by Elvis Costello, things Jongin thinks are too cheesy to be real and for which he gives Yifan a smack on the shoulder, even if he knows the smile on his face belies his true feelings.

 

Season come and seasons go and a couple of winters in it becomes clear to Jongin that Yifan has no intention of leaving, anytime, and he thinks it’s impossible, unfair, unrivalled for a human being to be this happy.

 

They’re all right like that, Yifan and Jongin in their house on the edge of the forest, Yifan with his job in the city and Jongin with his students at the dance academy, each of them moving through life as two halves forming a whole. They befriend some people in the village, kind couples around their age, and they talk of ‘Yifan and Jongin’, at times ‘Jongin and Yifan’, but never separately, and it’s the way things are and the way they’re supposed to be.

 

The bill finally passes in 2044 and they’re both too old to do this, really, grey hairs sprouting on the tops of their heads and their handsome features roughening with time, but they still do anyway, put on matching suits and slide matching rings on each other’s fingers, and Jongin’s mother cries when he finally says ‘I do’ but it’s from happiness that she does, and afterwards she tells him his father would have been happy, too.

 

Yifan is where he finds himself, where he makes his home, and where he’ll never end.

 

*

 

Years later, when he can barely even walk without his back protesting too much, one of the major TV networks make a documentary about him and a couple of other big names from ‘his era’, as they so tactfully lay it out for him. Iconiq’s one of them, he notes with glee as he reads the script, but he refuses to be interviewed, to be reminded of that part of his life now so long ago. So they resort to using old clips of him in his prime, practically ancient technology by now, and show the public the long-faded image of Kim Kai.

 

Amongst them is a video Kyungsoo had shot on the beach with a camera borrowed from his father and it shows a young him, maybe sixteen years old, blue swimming trunks covering his legs and a shirt knotted around his waist. He’s eating some sort of ice-cream that’s melting all over his hand as he squints at the camera, at Kyungsoo presumably, and points at something the camera doesn’t catch. The audio is horrible, their voices drowned out by the hot salty air wheezing sand back and forth in the back. He can barely catch Kyungsoo muttering something inaudible off-camera before there’s a ridiculous zoom-in, and all that’s seen is Jongin’s smile.

 

 

 


End file.
